


The Life and Times of Jessamine Kaldwin

by redcherrychocolate



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcherrychocolate/pseuds/redcherrychocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is a story in Dunwall that no one will ever hear, and it involves a slightly odd, young Empress."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It would seem I have a thing for writing about characters who catalyze the stories of others. In younger days I wrote an epic about Shuyin and Lenne from the Final Fantasy series. And now, against all my better judgment and time restraints, I'm doing it again.
> 
> Ladies, and gentlemen, I give you my interpretation of the story of Jessamine Kaldwin.

 

 

_“Quando hay frialdad en la tierra e la mar, vuelve tu rostro hacia el sol.”_

                                                                                                              – Old Serkonan Proverb, from an upcoming book of translations.

 

~~~

 

“Daddy!” Jessamine said, tugging insistently at his long sleeve, shouting over the ocean crashing against their ship. “It’s so bright here. Are we going to the sun?”

His face, straight and serious for so long, softened as he turned to smile at her, pulling his hand from her grasp. “Not quite, darling,” he said, patting her head. “But it feels as if Serkonos _is_ closer to the sun, doesn’t it?”

She nodded excitedly. “It’s too hot. Will we burn up?” she asked.

That made him laugh, though she didn't know why. “Not at all, Jessamine. There are people that live there, and they don’t burn up.”

She thought about that, fingers in her mouth. “Are they sun-people?”

Another smile was all the answer he gave her before he looked away again, gazing past the front of their ship, arms behind his back in that way he did when he was _conducting business_. Far away, she could see a growing line of white and green on the ocean, boats the size of tiny tree-leaf insects bobbing on the water.

Jessamine went to the ship rails and looked through them, down at the swirling white ocean around the boat. Waves of shiny green-blue and cloudy foam reflected light into her eyes. Sunlight burned on the back of her neck, even when she covered it with her hands.

“Jessamine, come away from there,” daddy said. “Cole, would you take her to the cabin? She can explore on land soon enough.”

“Right, sir." She heard Cole approaching, his boots with the dull steel toes thumping behind her. She turned and gave him her most well-practiced pout, folding her small arms. Cole, sand-colored hair ruffling in the wind and good eye squinting against the light, laughed.

"Come on then," he said, herding her toward the cabin. "Move along, little krust pearl. You'll have your adventure soon enough."

\---

Jessamine Kaldwin was five years old when she set foot on Serkonos for the first time.

She stepped off the dock where it stopped being one and became lengths of wood, lined one after another across the beach (nothing like the piers and water gates back home). She kicked at wet sand with her  shiny shoes until the nursemaid scolded her. Skipping wasn’t allowed, either—she had to stand still and quiet and keep her arms at her sides (and no swinging) as she followed daddy and Cole, the four of them surrounded by daddy's guards.

A group of well-dressed nobles and other serious-looking guards met them on the wooden path. She had never seen such dark-faced men in all her life, some with hair as long as a lady’s. One shook hands with daddy in that stiff way _diplomats_ and _associates_ did, and his voice sounded thick and funny when he spoke. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Emperor Kaldwin.”

They talked a while about boring adult things—Jessamine scuffed her foot very carefully against the sand so the nursemaid wouldn’t notice—before the dark man said, “I quite agree.  My men will escort your family to their quarters, if such is to your liking, and we can discuss matters further.”

“Excellent,” daddy said, and lifted a hand to signal the guards. “My men will attend as well. Mr. Griggs will come with me.”

“Of course,” the dark man said, his face still as a painting. He gestured behind him, where the beach became a busy, noisy and brightly-colored street. Near trees that bowed with the weight of big, leafy tops stood a line of red and bronze carriages, each with two horses of many different shades. “Shall we?”

“Jessamine, darling,” daddy said, turning to pat her on the head. “Be good for Marta.”

“Yes daddy,” she said, but it was with a pout and sideways look at the cranky nursemaid.

Her father and the dark man walked toward one of the carriages at the end. Cole followed, some of the dark man's guards going with them. The rest stayed, standing up straight and serious in their fancy uniforms alongside daddy's guards. One gestured to the nursemaid and said, “Right this way, ma’am.”

Jessamine got to skip now; the nursemaid was too amazed with this new place (and a little nervous, looking in a shifty way between the dark man's guards) to really notice, and none of the guards told her not to. One even smiled.

“Have you ever been to the sun?” she asked him, swinging her arms back and forth.

The guard thought that was a funny question. His eyebrows went up, then just one, and he chuckled in a confused way. “I have not, little miss.”

 “Daddy says Serkano is closer to the sun than Dunwall, so it’s the closest I’ve been ever,” Jessamine said. The guard smiled again.

The street was noisy and filled with people, some dressed in shirts without sleeves, some even wearing trousers that didn’t reach their ankles. She saw fancy dresses and jewelry as bright and colorful as her paints back home. The nice guard helped lift Jessamine into the carriage, and the spicy smell inside tickled her nose.

Two of daddy's guards got in with them, the rest moving into the second carriage, before their driver cracked the reigns and the carriage started to move. The horses pulled it through what felt like the whole city, tall buildings made of red clay and white stones reaching up to great, leafy trees planted by their doors. Big, vibrant banners stretched across storefronts—she could read some of the writing, or at least recognize it, but the rest looked very strange. Men called loudly from behind carts laden with smoke and odd-looking food, handing out bowls and things on sticks that people held in their hands to eat. She saw a crowd around a woman playing an instrument in the shade of a tree. Jessamine put her hands against the window when they passed jets of water that came straight out of the street, as many children as she had ever seen playing in the streams.

“You will be quartered in the Regent’s guest estate,” the dark man's other guard, a man with peppery-looking hair, told the nursemaid. "I believe you'll find it comfortable."

The way she was staring out the window, Jessamine didn’t think the nursemaid really heard. “And where might that be?” the nursemaid asked, vaguely.

“All offices of esteem are located in the Colina District, ma’am,” he said, gesturing out the window. There was a great hill in front of them, covered with more trees and short-looking buildings, only their rooftops peeking out past the green.

“They’re little,” Jessamine said, kicking her legs. “Dunwall Tower goes up into the sky. Why are they so short?”

“Jessamine!” the nursemaid snapped, waving a finger at her. “Don’t be rude! We are guests here.”

 “It’s all right, ma’am,” the nice guard said, and leaned forward so he was eye-to-eye with Jessamine. “You might be surprised, little miss. Even the smallest diamonds shine in the light.”

The nursemaid made a face she didn’t think anyone saw. Jessamine ignored her, and smiled at the nice guard.

They took a long, winding path up the hill, the crowds around the carriage thinning as they climbed higher and higher. It wasn’t long before the ocean crawled into view past the trees, bright with the shining sun. The people started to look more serious, dressed the same with long trousers and sleeves, some even walking in lines and formations. The buildings were still that same red and white, but there were fewer decorations and more gates, guards posted at entryways. The buildings were taller than they had looked, set far enough back to almost be part of the mountain, like they were ducking away into the forest.

They turned onto a path near the edge of the hill, the nice guard waving his hand out the carriage window. The footmen at the entry opened a gold-colored gate, and after a few more bends and twists a great white building poked through the trees. It was made of that same white stone, the walls and walkways bright with it. Three-story wings with red tile roofs made a horse-shoe shape around a walled courtyard—she could see green grass through a wide, curved entry, and people moving about inside.

As one of daddy's guards set Jessamine down outside the carriage and turned to help the nursemaid (who seemed to have caught wheel-sickness), Jessamine snuck closer, putting her hands on the doorway to peek in.

A group of boys were standing in lines, jumping back and forth and waving wooden swords. Most of them were older than her—from boys barely an inch taller than she was to men with broad shoulders and little beards—but she did see one or two her age, barely reaching the others' elbows. They all did the same steps and turns, and though some weren't perfect (she saw one of the boys her age stop, look around, then carefully matched the others) they seemed to move together, like one thing with a hundred faces. They swung their swords, letting out a cry that she could feel in the tiles. Jessamine blinked, pushing up and down on her toes.

“Ah, you should come away from there, little miss,” she heard, before the nice guard took her hand and pulled her gently away. She whined, looking over her shoulder and straining to see as the courtyard disappeared behind the wall. When she couldn’t see inside anymore she scurried to match the guard’s footsteps, grabbing and tugging on his sleeve.

“What’re they doing?” she asked, pointing back at the courtyard.

“They’re training,” he answered kindly, nodding toward the surrounding wall. “One day they’ll be Karnaca's city guards and Serkonos' soldiers.”

“Did you do that too?” she asked.

He smiled, nodding. “I did.”

“Can I?”

“I don’t think that’s the kind of thing an empress would like to do,” he said carefully. “But perhaps you can ask your father.”

He said it in the way adults did when they meant to say no. Her shoulders sank a little, and she sighed. “ _Okay_.”

He did something that most adults didn’t, and gave her a sympathetic look. “We’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” he said as they met up with daddy's men (who were giving the nice guard strange looks) and the peppery-haired guard (who was helping the nursemaid balance). “It’s very nice.”

Their room was in leftmost part of the horseshoe, all the way up the stairs and on the other end of a covered walkway, shaded by plants that wrapped around the railings. At its far end, the guards opened a door, and Jessamine and the nursemaid stepped into a suite that was only as big as daddy's bedroom and the music room put together. But the sitting room was bright, painted a soft yellow color, with wide windows and a balcony on the other end. There were plants too, growing from painted pots, some with vines that climbed to the ceiling. The nursemaid took her time saying goodbye to the peppery-haired guard before she shut the door, leaving daddy's guards outside, and grumbled about unpacking their bags.

When she wasn’t looking, Jessamine snuck over to the balcony. Sliding open the glass door and closing it so quietly that the nursemaid would never hear it, she turned and looked out at the grounds.

Dark wooden beams supported an overhead sunshade with something hanging from its edge, tiny metal loops chiming together in the breeze. She could see people on the walkways of the building's other wing and green trees all around, swishing and swaying. And then, there was what she was really looking for: the courtyard with the training boys below, her balcony high enough for her to look right over the walls.

Jessamine wrapped her hands around the black railing (letting go when it was hot against her palms) and watched them. They swung their swords back and forth, this time at each other. She watched them attack and then jump out of the way, trying not to be hit themselves. She saw one boy knock another down and the second one jump up, growling and yelling—some of the older ones came running over, scolding them loudly, before ordering them back to their task.

And while they trained to be guards and soldiers and protect the country in the sun one day, Jessamine Kaldwin stood on a balcony overhead, bobbing on her toes and swinging her arms in turn.


	2. Shadow of the Sun

I.

At the end of Rain, three months after Jessamine’s eleventh birthday, Serkonos and Gristol signed a new treaty of friendship. In Wind, an envoy came as quickly as sails could be set, bearing gifts and good will. And that meant a formal greeting.

“For goodness’ sake, child,” Marta said as Jessamine leaned away from her. “This would all go much quicker if you held still.”

“I can brush my own hair,” Jessamine said with a huff.

“Not properly you can’t,” Marta snipped, pulling Jessamine back and fighting with a tangle. “Now keep still. Then when I’m done you can carry on all you like until the ceremony.”

Jessamine sighed and slouched, pouting as she surrendered to the abuse. She knew how boring the greeting would be, how father would talk on and on with the diplomats about things she didn’t find interesting at all. She would have rather been at etiquette lessons, or doing the washing with the servants (she guessed so anyway, since she had never done it before). But she would be heir to the throne one day, so father said these things were _pivotal_.

Marta took her time weaving Jessamine’s hair into a short braid, smoothing and brushing and smoothing again until Jessamine was sure she wouldn't have any hair left. After some more gripping and fussing, securing her hair with a nice blue ribbon and looking over every detail of the outfit one more time, Marta finally relented. “Don’t you get a single crease in that dress!” she called as Jessamine bolted from the room and pretended not to hear her.

Jessamine slowed down once she reached the main hall, pulling at her hair to loosen the plait even a little. (When she became Empress, braiding girls’ hair too tight would be a punishable offense.) The foyer was full of guards, at least twice as many as any other day milling.  A few of them turned as she passed, looking concerned in that way adults did when she walked around on her own. She ignored them, heading down the stairs and toward the main doors. They stood wide open in a show of welcome, as they always did for formal things like this. She heard the people outside sooner than she saw them, loud and excited chatter pounding Dunwall Tower like a tidal wave.

Jessamine was careful to be sneaky as she approached, peeking around the great doorframe. Crowds lined the wide path to the Tower’s doorstep, kept contained by parallel lines of guards. Before, her at the top of the entry steps, stood father and Cole. Waiting, waiting, not doing anything at all as they waited for the Serkonan ambassadors to show up.

She tried to edge away quietly, maybe go hide in the garden until everything was over—they wouldn't miss her that might, right? But then Cole turned (for seemingly no reason, unless he did have hound-senses like the guards said) and spotted her as quickly as if he had had two eyes.

“Ah, ah,” he said with  a smirk, holding out a hand as she tried to slip out of sight. “Come on, little krust pearl. Your guests are early.”

A whine (the sort that didn’t befit a Lady) fell from her lips, and she shook her head in a pleading way. Cole was not swayed. He flicked his fingers meaningfully, smile taking on a serious edge. She sighed, and her legs felt as if they were carved from the heaviest river boulders as she shuffled over, his hand coming down on her shoulder. “Wouldn’t do not to have the Lady Jessamine here to greet her allies,” he said, guiding her between him and father. She jutted her lip out the way she wasn't supposed to, and had no intention of stopping on her own.

In the distance, past the crowds and over the barriers that separated the grounds from the river cliffs, she saw a fleet of strange looking ships—pale brown and rounded, not at all like the great gray ones she was used to. But they had sails just like Dunwall’s ships did, wrapped up tight now to keep from catching the wind. She couldn’t see anyone moving around onboard, and none of Dunwall Tower’s small ferriers circled the boats. That meant they were already on their way through the water lock.

As soon as she thought it the crowd grew louder, more excited, and a group of well-dressed, dark-skinned men came up the path. People on either side of the walk shifted and craned, trying to get a better look as the group climbed the last set of stairs. Jessamine recognized the Regent of Serkonos easily (though she had only known to call him that for a few years now), a tall man with long, jet-black hair tied neatly back. Two shorter men walked on either side of him (His Spymaster? His Royal Protector?) followed by a small army of guards, clean and pressed, straight-backed and stony-eyed. She was disappointed not to see the guard she remembered from when she was young (his face had started to blur in her mind, but she still remembered his smile and kind words), but that faded when something else caught her attention.

She squinted, trying to see through the dozens of jackets and scabbards and polished coat-buttons. At first she thought it was a very short man, but when one of the advisors stepped out the way she saw a boy her age, walking in form. He was dressed in less impressive regalia than the others, but there was no question he was one of them. His hair was only long enough to go past his ears and looked a little flyaway (she felt jealous, her scalp still prickling). His eyes were fixed somewhere behind her, father, and Cole—she looked over her shoulder, and found only a boring Dunwall Tower wall.

When she turned back, the boy was hidden from sight by much taller and broader bodies as the group finally reached the entry stairs. The Regent ducked his head without bending his shoulders  down. The others bowed deeper, the guards nearly dropping to their knees before lifting themselves up again. From what she could see of the boy, he managed it just as well as any of the others.

“It is good to see you, my friend,” father said, a familiar but stately smile spreading across his face. “Gristol and the city of Dunwall welcome you on this venture of brotherhood.”

“And we of Serkonos gratefully accept your welcome,” the Regent said, and smiled in kind. His voice rose, booming as he spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear. “In demonstration of our  gratitude, and hope for unity between our two great nations, we bear gifts from our shores, that they may symbolize and seal our bonds of friendship.”

Father nodded silently, telling them to go on without saying so. It was all irritatingly formal, Jessamine thought, but ignored it. She was suddenly interested in what the gifts were going to be.

They were predictable at first: polished wooden chests of gold and silver, pearls and stones from the Serkonan oceans; two hand-woven tapestries with brilliant patterns, a woven sun at the center of one and intricately stitched stars on the other; and the thin sort of fabrics that Serkonos was known for, flowing like water over the servants' hands. Jessamine started to slump a little. They were nice, she guessed, but she had seen enough gems and expensive clothes on people who visited the Tower to last a lifetime. They were as impressive as river rocks.

Then more interesting things started to appear. One of the servants, bowing low, offered a big round thing that Jessamine didn’t recognize—it was a nut, the Regent told them, from one of the great trees that grew in the Serokonan forests. It was easily the size of the servant’s head. Then came plants, roots wrapped in wet burlap, twisting red vines and patchwork-colored leaves and even a flower with teeth. For her great uncle’s garden, the Regent said, which was known far and wide as a place of wonder and beauty. Jessamine felt Cole leaning forward, just slightly.

Another servant stepped forward with a strange instrument, rounded at the bottom with strings stretched over an empty oval, its thin neck reaching the top of her head. She played a few notes and even the crowd seemed to hush and listen; when it was through she bowed nervously, her hands shaking. A group of servants took her place, standing alone—the Regent said they were the sons, daughters, sisters and cousins of his own attendants, and they would serve the royal family well. (They all had that same look, that stony-faced stare.)

When they stepped back, father seemed to think it was appropriate moment (or maybe, Jessamine thought, _he_ was getting bored too) to speak up. “Your hearts are kind and your favors generous,” he said. “We are humbled by and thankful for your tributes. Now, if you might—”

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” the Regent said evenly, “but there is one more gift.”

There was something father did that Jessamine had grown used to: a quiet pause that was fuller than any words, a breath that rolled itself up tight and breathed out in a sigh that no one else could hear or see. She felt him doing that now, his shoulders shifting up and down, his smile never wavering. “You are too kind,” he said, with a nod.

Jessamine looked to the servants, craning to see which one would step forward with the last gift. Instead, the guards to the Regent’s left shifted, and when she turned the boy was marching forward—he pulled the scabbard from his hip and hastily dropped to his knees, planting the end against the stone, wrapping both hands around the hilt and bowing his head. It looked like he had practiced that for a long time.

Father looked at the boy, then to the Regent, his smile asking for an explanation. Jessamine followed suit, and so did Cole—and so did everyone, maybe, from the way the crowd went quiet. “This is Corvo Attano, my lord,” the Regent said, “son of Serkonan nobility. One year ago, the Karnaca City Corps took over total guardianship of him. He is already an exceptional member of the guardian training regiment, for his age, and he stands as a prodigal combatant. It is our hope that you find use for him in the ranks of your military or city guard—but he is to be more than that. He will be ambassador between our nations, borne of one, with time in Dunwall molding him into a son of both.”

Silence filled the courtyard. Slowly, the murmurings of the crowd started to bubble up, like foam after the crash of a wave. Jessamine looked at Cole. She could see him raising an eyebrow behind his patch, the corners of his lips twisting down. She turned to her father in time to see him give the boy a short, pointed glance before looking back to the Regent.

Jessamine didn’t do the same. She turned to the boy and kept her gaze on him, the back of his head, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. They looked like they were shaking, just a little, and his fingers twisted on the hilt.

“Well,” father said as she stared (the boy started to lift his head, then quickly dropped it again), “I must say your gifts are as unique as they are bountiful. Now, if you would.” He made a gesture, flicking his fingers up. A guard near the boy poked him with a boot, and the boy hurriedly got to his feet, bowing as he pressed back against the sentry line.

The adults kept talking, though about what, Jessamine didn’t care enough to listen. The boy replaced his scabbard a bit clumsily and stood up straight, arms at his sides and chin up like all the others. She felt herself leaning forward, willing him to look back at her.

He seemed to feel her staring; his head turned stiffly, like it belonged to a living statue, only his eyes shifting more than an inch. They moved slowly around until they caught on her, hovering in an uncertain way like those of a nervous bird. She smiled welcomingly—just like an Empress should, and for once she didn't mind.

He blinked, then looked down almost instantly, gaze darting back and forth across the floor. Jessamine giggled quietly into her hand. Then, slowly, she turned her palm toward him, barely waving.

When he carefully glanced up again—she _knew_ he was watching—it was only for a moment, before his gaze quickly dropped back to the toes of his boots. His eyes narrowed, like he was intent on keeping them there. She had to wait a long moment for him to look up a third time, anxious and cautious, but when he did, she was ready: still smiling, still waving.

It seemed to work that time: he shifted slightly, but didn't look away. Then, despite all his practiced decorum, his head started to tilt.

There came a hand on her shoulder, squeezing tightly, making her jump. Jessamine looked up—she found Cole making a familiar face, the thin-lipped one that asked what she thought she was doing and saying she should know better. Jessamine slouched a little, feeling scolded, and when she looked up again the boy had already turned away, his gaze fixed on nothing with even more conviction.

As father turned away, gesturing the envoy inside and Cole steered her to follow, she got one last look at the boy in the crowd of guards. Then he sank quietly away, into the wave of pressed uniforms and shined buttons.

\---

“Honestly, my Lady,” Marta said as she turned down the covers and fluffed pillows, “I haven’t the faintest idea why you’re upset. I assure you they talked about nothing but boring old business. You’ll have your chance at it one day. You shouldn’t wish away these carefree years.”

Jessamine rested her chin heavily in the palm of her hand. She made a face at her page of sums, from her first carefully copied problems to the slower, sloppier one she wrote now. She jabbed at the paper with her pen, leaving a spreading ink blot. It was the most interesting thing on the whole page.

Huffing silently, she thrust the pen into its well harder than she needed to. She shut her book and pushed away the history text she was supposed to read— _Early Gristol Civilization, an Elementary Primer_ —before getting to her feet. “I’m tired,” she announced.

Marta looked up from sliding a heated rice pouch beneath the blankets, her eyebrows rising. “Oh?” she said as Jessamine approached. “I’m surprised, child. The sun is just down, and I know how you hate  taking to bed early.”

Jessamine lifted her chin. “I’m tired now,” she said again. “Guards were talking outside my room this morning. I’m sleepy.”

Marta didn’t look convinced. Her brows furrowed and she sighed as she stood, brushing her hands on her apron. “Well then, let me collect your bedclothes. You must be _very_ tired not to finish your lessons.”

Her silent challenge was something Jessamine was used to by now. Jessamine nodded her agreement, changed into her night-tunic and trousers when they were brought, even laid in bed in the dark long enough for Marta to appear bearing surprise glasses of water and ox milk to test her. She seemed to accept Jessamine’s claim after that, though in a suspicious way, taking the empty cups and saying good night. Jessamine waited for the click of the door and a while after, eyes wide open beneath her covers, before was sure Marta was gone.

Silently, she climbed from her bed and went to the wardrobe, shuffling through it in the dark, searching by feel alone. When her hand caught on familiar, rough fabric she pulled it down, throwing the cloak over her night clothes. Then, moving to her door and cracking it open, she peeked into the hallway. She glanced up and down, checking for patrolling guards or dawdling maids, and found that the coast was clear.

The next part was the trickiest. Edging into the corridor, she tiptoed down the hall to her father’s study, hoping that he wasn't in it. She was lucky—looking through the glass of the door, she found it empty, and slipped quietly inside. From there it was a quick walk across the footway—she could see people talking below in the Tower foyer, guards and statesmen, but not nearly as many as yesterday and no foreign uniforms or voices—down the winding staircase, and out the side door. The faraway smell of the ocean hit her in a chilly breeze, and the rustle of leaves and branches filled the garden before her.

Shivering when the cold air snuck beneath her cloak, Jessamine wrapped up tighter and moved onto the grass, where squat, carefully tended trees helped block the river breezes. She stepped into the pavilion at the center of the garden, swathed in crawling vines, and hopped onto one of its curved iron benches. She jumped to the next, arms out to keep her balance, and nearly tripped before righting herself in time. Marta would’ve had a fit if she had seen that.

Jessamine huffed. Everyone always had a fit when she did something fun, if they even let her start. Plopping down on the bench, she held her chin in both hands, letting her breath out in a puff. She thought about the men from Serkonos, how she only saw them in passing or during formal dinners when she had to sit at father’s side and be quiet and proper. The rest of the time it was more guards around her room, all the same lessons hour by hour. Boring history, boring penmanship, boring maths (it wouldn’t be so bad if they gave her more problems with words), boring manners training. _An Empress must be proper_ , she recalled, sticking her tongue out at the thought. _An Empress must be good._

She left the bench and stepped down from the alcove, kicking at a clump of dirt in the grass. It had gotten worse since her birthday—everyone liked to remind her that she would be making her first big decree soon, which meant more lessons and more preparation. No time for fun. No time to talk to the men from Serkonos, the place in the sun she fondly remembered from when she was small. No time to make a new friend.

Her feelings bubbled up like too-hot broth, simmering under her skin, and she broke into a run. She darted toward the wall surrounding the garden, pushed through the trees and caught herself on the stone barricade. The wind whirled loudly in her ears and she looked out onto the dark water, the pale glow of buoy-lamps bobbing with the current and the town lights dim on the other side of the river. She wanted to turn into a fish and swim away, or maybe a whale and dive down deep where they couldn’t reach her.

A hard gust of wind rolled over the water, the lights leaving streaks in the dark as the buoys swung. Jessamine threw her arms in front of her face to block its stinging bite. It pushed her back, and by the time it died down she was back behind the safety of the trees. Slowly, she lowered her arms, then sighed, pulled the cloak tight around her shoulders, and turned back toward the Tower.

She thought she heard another breeze at first, quiet and soft, rustling the grass. Then she felt a presence behind her, hair on the back of her neck standing on end, before an arm wrapped tight around her throat.

Her gasp was loud in her own ears as the impossible shadow tugged. She couldn’t think. She didn’t need to. Her fingers flew to the arm, clawing, prying it away enough to breathe, and she shrieked over the rolling wind. “ _No!_ ”

She didn’t know what she expected. She didn't expect a choked sound to come from behind her head, the arm loosening like snapped rope. She didn't expect to be spun around like a bewildered top. A dark figure, face buried in shadow, stood with hands on her shoulders. For an instant it and she were both still.

Her first instinct was to run, to jerk out of its hands and run and scream for the guards, just like she had always been taught, told stories about wicked Morley—but before her feet or her tongue could start to move the figure made the strangest sound, like a canvas balloon deflating, and collapsed to the ground.

“Forgive me,” it said, in a voice that went from low to high and cracked at its peak. “Please forgive me, Empress. I didn’t—I thought—”

Jessamine stared in bewilderment, her hand shaking violently where she clung to her cloak. The figure stammered into silence and seemed to tighten, curling into a smaller shape—but, with a little more time to look now, she could make out two hands pressed against the ground, a bent back, bowed head. It wasn’t a man-sized figure, either, much closer to her size. Slower than normal, her brain started to draw the right lines.

“That’s, em,” she stammered, “that’s okay.” She couldn’t think of anything more regal to say. The figure didn’t move, still bent over double. His forehead was probably getting muddy. “Um,” she said, “c-could you please—I mean, erm, stand up? Your Empress commands you to stand up. And give your name.”

The figure did what she said, so slow it almost looked painful. He rose as high as his knees, lifting his face just enough for her to see it by the light of the Tower’s high-up windows. He started to open his mouth, already stammering before he had managed to form words. She swiftly silenced him with a gasp and a pointed finger. “You’re the boy!” she cried.

His lips snapped shut, a tight white line in his dark face. His flyaway hair was tucked under a slipping hood, and he wasn’t wearing the formal clothes she had seen him in before, but there was no mistaking him. Maybe it was the fear of a moment ago, the anxiety shaking itself from her body, but suddenly she found excitement taking her over.

“You’re the boy from Serkonos,” she said. “You came with the Regent and the others.”

He nodded stiffly, his eyes trailing to the ground. He didn’t bow again, but bent his head just like at the ceremony, looking very small.

Jessamine stared. “You,” she said, “your name, it’s um—Corvo, right? That’s you?”

His head bobbed again, and he stayed silent. It was starting to make her anxious. “What’re you doing here?” she asked. “Didn’t everyone go back to Serkonos?”

“Yes,” he said to the ground. “But I—”

There came shouting from behind her, and with a gasp she spun, looking into the dark. The wind had died to a whisper and she could hear guards’ cries, the beat of boots on grass as they pounded down the side yard. They would be here in a second.

She swung back, grabbed Corvo by the hand, and jerked him up. He stumbled, barely catching himself in time not to trip her, too. Then they were up and running and she pulled him along, dashing for a set of lattices against the Tower wall. “Come on!”

He followed without question. She hit the cold stone wall and scrambled into the space between the lattices and the wall, covered in vines and flowers. She tugged Corvo in after her—he seemed to struggle longer, not fitting as easily as she did, but in a moment they were both inside, pressed like leaves between the pages of a book. Jessamine barely dared to breathe as she peered through the spaces in the vines.

The guards stormed into sight an instant later, slowing in the clearing. They checked the alcove and the bushes, vanishing from sight to search the outlook. She squeezed Corvo’s hand before she realized she was still holding it; he seemed to squirm a bit, flexing his fingers nervously before stilling again. The guards kept searching, calling to each other and their imagined mark—“I know you’re here,” this and “Make it easy on yourself and come out,” that. She felt Corvo shrinking beside her and gave his hand another squeeze.

Eventually their cries went quiet as their enthusiasm dimmed. “False alarm,” she heard as a guard passed too close for comfort, near enough to touch the vines.  “Let’s go.”

They filed away in ones and twos, until the last guard abandoned his search of an exotically colored, stubby plant and followed the others around the bend. After waiting a while longer to make sure they were really gone, Jessamine finally breathed out in relief.

She looked at Corvo. In the dim light it was hard to tell for sure, but he seemed pale, eyes wide in his face and his breaths only just starting to slow. Somewhere between all that, he was looking at her in an odd and wordless sort of way.

She smiled at him. “I’m really good at hiding from them,” she explained.

That didn’t seem to help. If anything he looked even more bewildered, his head tilting impressively.

With a nudge she guided him out the way they came. He seemed to have regained himself enough to help her, carefully pulling her out into the open. She curtsied; he looked away, eying the ground as she let go of his hand.

“Come on,” she said, pointing toward the alcove. “Let’s hide over there, in case they come back.”

By the time they reached it he seemed to have calmed down—he sat up straight on one of the stone benches, looking like it didn't take much thought, and only fidgeting a little now. Jessamine paced, twirling slowly and thoughtfully.

“So,” she started, “what are you doing here?”

“The others went back,” he said, watching his fingers and wringing them together. “But I—I’m the ambassador, so I stayed. They said I should stay.”

“Oh,” Jessamine said quietly. “Well, um, I meant what are you doing _here_ , in the garden? Why were you . . .?”

He twitched suddenly, and guiltily lifted his eyes. It was hard to tell, but she thought he might be blushing.

He murmured something too quiet for her to hear, and she had to ask him to say it again before he cleared his throat and spoke up. “Patrolling the Tower, Empress,” he said in a formal, practiced way. “For intruders.”

“What were you doing that for?” she asked, brow furrowed.

“I—while I’m here, I’m going to train with the Guard,” he said, and despite his careful efforts his gaze fell slowly, shamefully to the floor stones. “So I—I thought I should . . .”

Jessamine put a hand over her mouth as delicately as possible, trying to hold back a snicker. “You thought I was a thief?”

He nodded slightly. “Or a spy, maybe.”

She wanted to laugh. Her, a thief or a spy! Her books and the stories the guards told didn't say anything about child-burglars. But as much as that made her smile, something still bothered her, tickled at the back of her mind. "You almost hurt me," she said a little sadly, fingers brushing her neck, where she sensed a ghostly imprint of his arm.

Corvo's eyes went as wide and white as a moon in Harvest. He fell from the bench like he wanted to dive into the stone, his hands and knees cracking against it. "I'm so sorry, Empress, I—I'll never—"

"W-wait," she said, leaning down to tug his shoulders up. He lifted his head, though his palms stayed stuck to the stone. "Just—" she said, pulling at him until he started to sit up, "just be more careful next time, okay?"

The way Corvo stared at her, wordless in the sinking of his bottom lip and the turning of his head, she would have thought she was a sea monster, or at least something stranger than a girl. It was weird to be looked at like that, and she started to chuckle nervously. "You're pretty good!" she said, to change the subject. "At sneaking around I mean. I know when the guards are coming from across the Tower, and I didn't hear you at all!"

Again, her words only seemed to confuse him more, the way he stared and didn't move. She pulled at him until he finally agreed to stand, then brushed herself off, raising her hood. "I should go back to my room," she told him, then thrust her finger toward the door, deepening her voice. "Take me to my door, guard!"

He seemed to take her seriously at first, standing up straighter, but relaxed cautiously when she laughed. They reached the secret door a moment later and she looked back at him, smiling. "There's a way into the main room here. Where do you live?"

"On the second floor," he said shyly. "Near the kitchens."

It was Jessamine's turn to stare. She wasn't sure she had ever seen any rooms there—she had been to the kitchens before, of course, Cole helping her steal sweets and tarts when the cooks weren't looking, but she didn't remember any bedrooms nearby. "I should come visit you," she said, in answer to both. The way he stammered at that, looking down shyly, made her smile again.

"And then," she said as she backed inside, Corvo following until she reached the bottom of the stairwell, "you can tell me all about Serkonos, okay?"

Corvo seemed to consider that, nodding slowly, like he wasn't sure he had heard her properly. He did it a bit quicker, after a moment. "Sure."

"Good! Goodnight, Corvo!" she said, and dashed up the staircase. She could all but feel him watching her all the way up the spiral –she leaned over the railing at the top, waving to him one last time.

He waved back, slowly and almost unconsciously, before sinking out of sight. Jessamine, in turn, edged toward the walkway, trying to imitate his shadowy stealth.

\---

They—Cole and Marta both, and other Tower staff too—wouldn't let her visit the guards' quarters near the kitchens. But, in the end, it didn't matter.

"There you are!" she called. It took Corvo a moment of turning this way and that before he thought to look up. She waved down at him from the waterlock bridge, smiling with her victory.

"Empress?" he said, stiffening, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the light. The Guard seemed to have found him a proper uniform—a long, red tunic with white stripes under a blue coat—but apparently hadn't been able to find him a helmet. His hair was a little tidier, combed down and maybe even slicked. He also looked very alone, in the lower courtyard beneath the waterlock without another soul in sight.

"What're you doing down there?" she asked, leaning over the bridge's stone siding. Even with citizens and diplomats and politicians filling the plaza near the main gate, no one ever bothered to go to the lower courtyard.

He didn't seem to like her leaning, she guessed from the way he edged closer to the bridge. "I—I'm stationed here today, Empress."

"Why?" she said, chin in her palm.

" . . . Because the commander ordered it," Corvo answered after a pause, as if that were a question he hadn't thought to ask.

"But why does it need to be guarded?" she asked. "There isn't anything down there."

He paused a bit longer this time, looking around as if he might find an answer in the grass or a stray shipment crate. After a moment, he lifted his head again. "I—I'm not sure, Empress."

She giggled into her hand, only stopping when she caught his embarrassed look. "You know, I'm not the Empress yet. I'm the _heir apparent_ ," she said, the way her father did.

"Oh," he said. Even without looking at his face she knew what he was thinking—it was not very easy to say, and it did not sound very nice, either.

"Everyone else calls me Lady Jessamine," she said. "You should too, until I'm really Empress."

"Um, a-all right," he said.

"Hey, stay there," she said, already half turned away. "I'll come keep you company, okay?"

She only caught a bit of his stammering as she ran for the courtyard steps (the guards near the alcove making faces as she ran by). When she passed the bridge supports she found Corvo right beside them, nervously rubbing the back of his head.

"All right," she said, hopping up on a crate, arms out as she balanced along the edge, "since there's no thieves or spies to catch out here, now you can tell me about Serkonos, right?"

He looked embarrassed again, and she smiled in a kind way. Then he seemed to think a moment, his expression shifting, his gaze rising up to where pale sunlight filtered through a layer of gray clouds. When he wasn't looking she noticed he didn't have a pistol either, and the scabbard at his hip had no hilt poking from the top. "What do you want to know?" he asked, and then, as if to test it on his tongue, "Lady Jessamine."

That made her smile even bigger. "Everything!"

Something happened to him, then. His lips turned up just a little at the corners, and even when he looked back up at the dreary sky there was something different in his eyes. "Well, uh," he said, "first, it's a lot warmer there than it is here . . ."


	3. A Little Bit Lighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made for an important ceremony, Jessamine sees a different side of her father, and Corvo has a few new tricks to teach her.

The Month of Darkness came and went as if carried on the Wind’s gusts. More of the guards were brought inside with the coming of the cold, more lights on longer with the loss of the sun. Corvo didn’t have to guard the lower courtyard many more times—but in the middle of the month, not long before Solstice Day, she peeked out the front door and found him by the entry steps. He stood still as an icicle, and when she got closer she found him quietly shivering. They hadn’t given him the winter uniform.

She got two ox skin coats from her wardrobe and settled next to him on the steps, even as he looked flustered and bewildered, and the other guards made strange faces. Corvo was moved inside not long after that, set to guarding the lobby steps.

She didn’t see as much of him toward the end of the month, or as High Cold began. He still seemed shy, and even more nervous than before—he fidgeted anxiously when she sat next to him during his shift, a smile or two peeking through before a fog of worry settled over him again. She started to think he didn’t like her, and she felt an awful twisting in her chest. When the world was at its darkest, she didn’t see him for days.

 Then, one morning at the peak of High Cold, there came a soft knock at her door, startling her from sleep. She drowsily opened it to find Corvo there, finger to his lips, pointing down the hall for her to follow.

It had snowed in the night, a thick layer of white and chill covering every branch and terrace. As they walked through the sleeping garden and she breathed into her hands, Jessamine noticed how fascinated Corvo looked, how he gazed around at everything with amazement, even down at the ground where snow crunched under his boots.

“Have you ever seen snow before?” she asked, her breath fogging in the cold.

“Only in books,” he said, picking up some powder and studying it. Jessamine promptly shoved a handful down the back of his tunic.

(By High Cold’s end, he had learned how to have a proper snow-battle.)

By the Month of Ice, he was no longer left alone to guard anything. There were always others with him, at least two, sometimes more. (Sometimes, she would look up, and even though they weren’t meeting her eyes she felt like they were watching.) She always went to see him, when she could—Marta seemed more suspicious of her at night, checking on her more often, but Jessamine learned to arrange the covers just the right way to trick her.

Corvo taught her how to sneak, even better than she already could, ducking through shadows and walking on light feet. He poked through her books, and she taught him words he didn’t know. She read from Gristol folklore in the parlour while he listened from a spot where he could easily hide. He talked about the country in the sun, about festivals that seemed as endless as its beaches. It made her miss it even more, and she could sometimes see a quiet, faraway sort of look in his eyes when he told those stories.

Slowly, the plants and grass started to come in again, the cold melting away.

\---

"Number five," her instructor said, pacing past her desk.

"Um," Jessamine sighed, picking her sluggish and bored brain, "rampant hunger?"

"Correct," he said, brushing off his gold-embroidered sleeves and reciting from memory. "Restrict the Rampant Hunger or the intemperate will rise up among you like a virulent swarm, devouring everything wherever they go, even filth. For what goes into your body . . ."

He paused, in pacing and speaking, and looked back at her. Jessamine's mind had drifted the moment he started talking—she snapped back to attention as fast as possible when she noticed the quiet. "Uh, poisons you."

"Good," said the instructor. "And?"

"And . . ." she said, trying to remember, "when you eat filth, it will . . . make you sick?"

The tightening of his scowl told her that wasn't right. He _tsk_ ed and picked up a scroll from his desk, unfurling it. "I implore you to take your studying seriously, Lady Jessamine," he scolded as he turned his back to her. "Now, we will be skipping the Sixth Stricture for the time being. We will revisit that at a later date. For now we will move on to the Seventh Stricture: the Errant Mind. Ahem. Restrict an errant mind before it becomes. . ."

Jessamine's eyes found the window the same way a night-fly finds a lantern, looking out into the morning beyond the Tower. Early light was just starting to cast itself across the world, drifting into the courtyard and cascading over the river. She could see mist starting to break on the other bank, buildings beyond emerging out of the grey.

Even if it was never still, the river seemed calm; images of boating across it filled her head, seagulls crying, the buoys ringing loud bells she could hear on the shore. She could get to the other side and explore, the streets and the shops and maybe even markets. She wondered what people she would see. Probably not the stuffy diplomats that wandered Dunwall Tower, but other people, like merchants and shop-owners who came just to see it for themselves, and who she wasn't supposed to talk to. Smelly but friendly fisherman and well-fed bakers and maybe even some scamps like the ones in her books. She couldn't remember the last time she had been to the other side of Dunwall—father and Cole promised she would get to visit again, someday.

Sighing, she let her eyes drift to the courtyard below the window, the expanse of green grass and arranged white stone. Instantly, she perked up. Filing into the clearing were lines of guards, walking in formation. They must have been there for training. She craned, trying to see if Corvo was with them—

(The last time she'd seen him, he told her that he had beaten one of the captains in a training match, with everyone there to see. He said things were worse with the other guards after that at first, but were starting to get better . . .)

The scroll came down with a _thwack_ on her desk, and Jessamine jumped with a terrified squeak.

The instructor did not look happy, his nostrils fighting not to flare with the strength of his scowl. "The First Stricture, Lady Jessamine," he said, deathly quiet. "Restrict the Wandering Gaze."

Slowly, Jessamine sunk down in her chair—then, a moment later, the study door opened.

"Good morning, Overseer Henzy," came her maths instructors voice, and she was never so happy to hear it in all her life. "Good to see you again, as always. I believe it is time for Lady Jessamine's sums tutorial."

Her Stricture instructor got a sour look on his face, but nonetheless took up his bag and tucked the scroll away. "Teaching a Lady sums," Jessamine heard him murmuring grumpily. He stood and left without looking at her, and for that she was grateful.

Ignoring the dirty look he got from the Overseer as they passed, the maths instructor set his books and papers down on the table beside her. Jessamine stared at the impressive stack, at least chin high, and dread quickly settled like a stone in her stomach.

“Instructor,” she said, “I don’t think I feel well.”

“As often as you say that, Lady Jessamine, I might think your humors were upset by instruction,”  he answered, grinning at what she guessed was a joke. “Remember, child, an Empress must be wise and well-educated. You must be prepared. You’re first royal decree isn’t far off now, is it?”

Jessamine’s frown pulled at her mouth as if weighed down with anchors. He set a thick volume down in front of her— _Elementary Mathematics_ —and picked up a thick stack of notes. “Now, if you’ll turn to page twenty-three—you did do you exercises, didn’t you, Lady Jessamine?”

She stared at the page of questions, addition, subtraction, multiplication—the same thing over and over, until her vision started to swim. She sighed, something heavy in her chest, and when the instructor wasn’t looking, turned her eyes back toward the window.

\---

That afternoon, she left a note— _garden 17:00_ —beside a Tyvian vase set behind a curtain off the foyer’s side stair. Five minutes before the time, as she sat on one of the stone benches in the garden and ate the first of her bread treats, Corvo came edging around the corner.

Jessamine giggled instantly. “Boaster!” she said as he tiptoed along the second-story ledge, as effortless for him as walking down a lane. He shrugged, and though she couldn’t see his face, she was sure he was smiling as he descended the gutter.

(In Clans, he had shown her how he could climb, looking thoughtful for a moment before scaling boxes and ledges, pulling himself up onto a high sill. He had laughed at the face she made—it wasn’t the first time she had heard it, but it was the first time she remembered.)

“I saw you training this morning,” she said, passing him a handful of treats when he sat down beside her. “I think so anyway. In the north yard?”

“You were awake that early?” he said. He turned one of the treats over, looking at it curiously before taking a bite.

“Do you like it?” she asked. “It’s apple. I don’t think they make them with grapes, but I could see.”

He seemed surprised that she asked (not jumpy, or shy the way he used to do), then nodded with a small smile. “Thank you. This is good.”

“Okay,” she said, and took a bite of one herself. “Anyway, my lessons are early now. I saw everyone training outside.”

“Oh,” he said, absently fiddling with one of the confections. He was watching her in that way she had had to get used to—a quiet, attentive way that said he was listening, even if he didn't say anything himself. (As late as the end of High Cold she thought he didn’t like talking to her; it took a lot of stammered assurance on his part to convince her otherwise.)

Her chin rested heavily in her hand. Ever since the dank and wet cold had started to disappear, her lessons had gotten even worse—they lasted into the afternoon, stories about boring old men on top of equations on top of sermons. Jessamine didn’t know how they expected her to concentrate if what they were teaching was so boring.

(She tried to push down the urge to complain; just as her lessons were more demanding, there were longer trainings for Corvo, shifts that started early and sometimes went well into the evening as the Guard made preparations for next month.)

“I have to pick my Royal Protector soon,” she said. “They said it’s a _great responsibility_ and my lessons will get harder so I can be a good Empress.”

“You’re doing that now?” he asked, perplexed. He was too polite to say it, but she knew what he meant. “When?”

“After my birthday,” she answered. “Once I’m twelve I have to name the Royal Protector that will be with me when I'm Empress.” She tried to balance one of her treats on the pad her finger, and frowned when it fell into the flower bed. "You're eleven now, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yeah," Corvo answered.

"I'm older than you," Jessamine snickered, biting into her last treat and not letting it escape.

(She had learned Corvo’s birthday was in Hearths a month too late, during Harvest. As a belated gift she had spicy fish soup—something Serkonan and she knew he liked, was somehow sure he missed—sent to his mystery quarters. He had knocked on her door several hours later to thank her, but ask her not to do it again, for some reason he wouldn't say.)

Corvo smiled slightly, then looked at his treat, turning it over in his hand. “Have you picked someone?” he asked.

 “Yeah,” she said, slowly. “I mean, I’ve known Cole forever, so it makes sense to pick him."

"Lord Protector Griggs?" Corvo asked. That was right—Cole was so much more formal with everyone else.

"Yeah," she said. "I like him, and he’s always been good to me and father. And he's already Lord Protector.”

“Hmm,” Corvo said thoughtfully, and handed Jessamine one of his wafers. She took it, feeling greedy and a little irritable all of the sudden.

She finished it in a few bites, then jumped up, brushing wrinkles out of her coat. “Okay!” she said, and rounded on Corvo. “You said you were going to teach me some of the things you learned in training, right?”

Corvo blinked up at her. “What do you want to know?”

“Hmm,” Jessamine replied, feigning thought. The answer was obvious, in her mind. “Sword-fighting!”

He turned a shade paler. Quickly, he stumbled through an explanation of why he couldn't do that yet—they needed something to use as swords (something better than twigs, Jessamine realized even as she offered)—and maybe, for today, they could do something else? She agreed, and picked hand-to-hand sparring.

Corvo looked like he might faint. Jessamine laughed, promised she was teasing (sort of) and settled for another stealth lesson (to his clear relief).

As he slipped around the alcove, ducking behind the pillars and telling her to watch for twigs or dried grass as she followed close behind, everything felt a little bit lighter.

\---

Jessamine wasn’t sure why everyone was always so upset about the end of the year.

Side doors were counted and barred, even more guards were around than normal, and the maids darted nervously through the halls, murmuring to each other (Jessamine was sure she heard them giggling sometimes). As many times as she had asked why everyone was uneasy, no one really answered—or worse, told her it was _something for adults to worry about_ and she would _know when she was older_! She was never allowed to leave the Tower after morning hours on the last day of the year, or even visit the grounds. It seemed like a lot of worrying for nothing—she'd never seen a time when the new year didn't come.  
  
Still, this year was the same as always, the day bustling with nervous activity. Jessamine stopped to watch the main entrance from the walkway overhead, foot tapping with irritation over the locked garden door. Men from Parliament darted around the lobby, back and forth to father’s offices and their own small enclaves, like fluffed and blustery sparrows. She had asked about them once, why they acted the way they did when the end of the year came—father had told her it was bad luck to let business linger into the new year. Cole had murmured something about cosmic energies making them mad.

As the hours passed the Tower grew more and more deserted, even guards and maids disappearing until Jessamine couldn’t go anywhere without her footsteps echoing. She never liked that part of the last day—everything seemed so empty, and lonely.

As the sun started to set, Marta interrupted Jessamine adding a tree to her painting of a beach and ushered her down to dinner. After the food tasters had come and gone, Jessamine made sculptures with her pieces of whitefish steak, greens, and the roots she had never liked. Cole barely touched his plate, standing and sitting and standing again to give instructions to the guards at the dining room door. Father looked tired at the head of the table, eating slowly and taking special time to close his eyes. She ate the steamed roots quietly, without complaint.

Reappearing like a ghost after the dishes were cleared (the way she always did after Jessamine’s rare dinners with father), Marta steered Jessamine back to her room and said there was no leaving the second floor for the rest of the night. (She did promise a treat at the hymn’s sounding, though, and said there was no slumber-hour tonight.) As Jessamine added her guess at a sea-star to the beach painting, she was sure she could point out every place a guard was standing around the Tower, without even seeing them.

She got tired of her painting. She flipped through the books she had read a thousand times—the ones about pirates and explorers and sea monsters that Marta always wrinkled her nose at. Soon it was hard to read the letters, her eyes going blurry no matter how much she blinked and shook her head. She lied down on her bed, staring at the warm-ocean-blue canopy overhead, the quiet of the Tower bearing down around her. She didn’t like it one bit. She didn’t want to be here alone.

She sat up and grabbed her cloak. She was going to look for Corvo.

She almost expected Marta to being waiting outside, sleeping in a chair beside the door to guard against even a second of fun. But she was lucky: from where she stood, the corridor looked empty, and sounded eerily silent.

Quietly, she tiptoed toward father’s study. The garden door may have been barred for the night, but there was still the door into the foyer—if she was sneaky enough she might be able to slip into the kitchens without being seen, or put on her best pout and pretend to be hungry if she was caught . . .

She didn’t get that far. As she scanned the turn in the corridor (she saw two guards near the top of the grand staircase, but if she was really quiet they might miss her) and reached for the door handle, she heard voices inside.

“—age more in this day alone than all the year besides.”

“Smart as hagfish in suits. Knock three together and you’d  get half a thought worth hearing.”

Jessamine's gaze shot to the door, and she squinted through the watery glass. Searching the wavering world on its other side, she spotted the gold of father's hair, barely peeking over the top of a red armchair. She craned to see around the glass' metal frame and Cole came into clearer view, head hanging and hands working slowly together. She didn't need to see his knife or the small, half-completed wood figure in his hands to know they were there—it had been a hobby of his since she was a child.

“There is nothing so exhausting as the trivial worries of a bureaucrat," came father's voice as she ducked low. "You would have thought Parliament was in flames. And each and every year the same.” 

Cole chuckled, and slashed a large leaf from his carving. "Best to get their affairs in order so the drink and whores don't spend their fortune tonight." (Jessamine's eyes widened, and she leaned closer.)

"Or they mean to solidify their political successors, for if they should not live to see dawn," father said.

"Paranoid, the lot of 'em," Cole said dismissively, and held his work to the light to examine it. "Most of them leave for the countryside anyway. It's the poor folk that have to worry about being trampled or stabbed. Worst comes to worst, the city manor burns down and they pay to have it rebuilt."

"Be that as it may, they are men with great political sway, and they find their whims to be of great import." There was a moment of quiet; Jessamine could nearly hear the soft swish of Cole's knife as it shaved off another leaf. “It makes me loathe to pass the responsibility to another living soul," her father said, "least of all Jessamine.”

She jolted a little at the sound of her name, then leaned even closer. Everyone always told her how important being an Empress was, all the work and training, but this was different. She had never heard father sound so sad about it before.

Cole chuckled. "I don't think you'll need to worry yourself about Jessamine, sir," he said. "She has more will than a Tyvian mountain bear."

"I do not worry for her determination, nor her strength of character," father said. "But the work has a way of wearing on a man. Her challenges will also be unique, and I fear I may not—"

Cole lifted his carving to the light again, turning it over. As he brought it back down, satisfied with his work, his gaze drifted—then, with a small jerk of surprise from them both, met hers.

"Well Outsider's ears," he said, interrupting father and getting to his feet. She jerked away and thought to run, but only got as far as moving away from the glass before Cole opened the door.

She whipped around guilty as Cole stepped through the door, his grin saying one thing, the furrow of his brows another. "Quite the sneak, aren't you, little Morlean?"

"Is that Jessamine?" she heard her father say, clearing his throat before raising his voice. "What are you doing awake, darling?"

"M-Marta said I could," she answered, feebly at first, then remembered that that _was_ true and lifted her head. She leveled a challenging look at Cole, one that made him raise his eyebrow. "And I was bored."

Cole chuckled. "Look at this child. You'd think she was an attorney's daughter!" he said, mussing her hair. She whined and only managed to duck away after he had made her bun thoroughly frizzy. "Now, back to your room. No adventures tonight."

"Hold a moment, Cole," father said. "I'd like to speak to my daughter, if you would."

 Cole raised an eyebrow again, looking over his shoulder this time, before turning back to her. Jessamine folded her arms and raised her chin, feeling oddly defiant. Cole let a small puff out through his nose, then rolled his eye and stepped aside. "All right. _The Lady Jessamine Kaldwin_ to see you, sir," he said as she passed.

She moved into father's study, and instantly softened her steps, fidgeting. It was stale and silent in the room as she edged toward father's chair. A book sat open on a squat tea table, beside a bowl for wood scraps and a bottle of wine. Father set an empty glass down as he turned to her and offered his hand. "Come here, darling."

She did, shuffling nervously forward to take his hand, and he covered hers with his other. "Listen to Cole, my dear," he said, seeming distant, gazing at something on the far wall—she glanced that direction and found nothing interesting. "You're not to leave your room again tonight. Do you understand?"

"Why?" she asked before she could stop herself, biting her lip a moment after. Her voice had none of the defiance she had used on Cole, only curiosity, but . . .

Father did something she didn't expect. Instead of a steady smile and unflinching tone as he set down his rules, he sighed, a slow puff of breath like a cold wind shaking leaves. "You'll know in time," he said, patting her hand. "But for now, listen to Cole, and your old father. Can you do that?"

"Yes, father," she said without any more hesitation. She made to go that very moment, shifting backward, but father didn't let go of her hand.

"You've grown so quickly, my dear," he said, his smile a soft shadow. "Not a fortnight until you name your Royal Protector. It is the beginning of great responsibility."

"Yes, father," she said again. She heard Cole shifting by the doorway, the hinges creaking gently.

"It will take great strength. All of it," father said, at once far away and yet close enough to squeeze her fingers. "I have no doubt you will do it. Stay strong, Jessamine."

"Yes, father," she said, her stomach turning in nervous tumbles, and she wasn't really sure what she was saying yes to.

"Good," he said, and let her go. "Now run along, my dear. Take to bed and be ready to greet the new year."

Jessamine nodded and walked as if in a fog, mind whirring when Cole shut the door behind her. He escorted her down the hall, his murmurings ("Ha, Marta, daft woman. Like her to leave the front door open, too,") barely louder than the sound of her own thoughts as they reached her room.

"All right, off with you then," he said as she stepped inside. "Goodnight little Morlean. Be good, now."

He shut the door, his footsteps echoing down the hall before vanishing into silence. Slowly, Jessamine went to her bed, kicked off her shoes, and sat on top of the bedspread. She didn't know what to think.

She still didn't know what to think a minute later, as she threw off her coat and slipped beneath the covers. Nor did any answers come after she absentmindedly blew out the candles at her bedside and laid down. And none was forthcoming in her dreams, when sleep finally took her mind.

(At some point, well into the night, she dreamed of ringing bells and sounding hymns.)

\---

She had thought things were bad _before_.

Her notes to Corvo became messier and messier, frantically scribbled as the first days of the Month of Earth passed. Her back hurt from standing straight for hours, trying to master the etiquette teacher's carefully designed walk. Her skin prickled where the seamstresses had accidentally jabbed her with their pins, pulling and measuring and shaping stiff and uncomfortable fabric around her body. Even her mind was tired, crammed full of rules and instructions about how to behave, how to stand, what to do, what to say. _I, Jessamine Kaldwin the First, heir of House Kaldwin, sound in body and mind, appoint Cole Griggs Royal Protector of the Empire of Isles._ _I, Jessamine Kaldwin the First, heir of House Kaldwin, sound in body and mind, appoint Cole Griggs Royal Protector of the Empire of Isles. I, Jessamine Kaldwin . . ._

She took to hiding under her bed and behind stuffed, dusty-smelling chairs in the parlour. When that stopped working, she tried more creative places—she didn't like the storage room, so dusty and cold, but she was fond of the unused fireplace in the hall near her bedroom. As the twelfth drew nearer, even she could barely read the notes she left for Corvo, shoved in and around the vase, barely describing new and even more secluded places. (He was late because of it more than once, sheepish and apologetic.)

Marta was frantic as a seabird caught in trawler ropes. Jessamine swore the governess counted the gildings for the ceremony outfit a thousand times, polished coat buttons at least once a day and took charge of making the headpiece herself. She was snappish, looking as if she was struggling not to shake Jessamine by the shoulders whenever she caught her hiding. (And Jessamine was sure she had never heard anyone—even the guards—swear so colorfully as Marta did when the trim on the ceremonial tunic wasn't the proper gold.)

Father was normal again, straight-backed and regal. Jessamine didn't see him much, but when they passed briefly in the evenings, a smile on his face as she was ushered to her room and he nodded from the study door, there was some tiredness to his eyes that hadn't gone away.

Cole, meanwhile, seemed the least flustered of them all. He ruffled Jessamine's hair like normal, chuckled and smirked and made jokes. Excluding the glimpse she got of him out in the west yard, barking at rows of attentive guards, he seemed no worse for wear. There was a strange feeling in her stomach when she thought about that.

The eleventh day would be awful—a hysterical Marta, the feverish work of the seamstresses, and final demands for rote memorization would turn the Tower into her day-and-nightlong prison. So as the tenth began to rush past in another set of fittings and scoldings, she escaped long enough (saying she was thirsty, and rushing off before Marta could offer anything) to hastily thrust a note into the vase. She had to get away from all of this, just for a little while.

She knew where no one would be, the last place they would think to look, and that was why she picked it. As the sun started to set she huddled behind an old tree in the lower courtyard, leafless in the early spring, and stared out at an ocean glowing orange and gold. She huffed mist, chin hitting her knees as she pulled them to her chest, and waited.

The sun was just a sliver on the horizon when she heard something, and turned. Past the twisted white trunk, across the courtyard and atop the water lock bridge, stood Corvo. Smiling, Jessamine sat up—then, her brows furrowed as he leaned over the wall, looked at the ground below.

After glancing around as if checking the coast was clear, he climbed up on the wall, crouching low. Jessamine's hand tightened against the trunk. What was he doing? She was just opening her mouth to call out, to tell him _be careful_ and the wall might still be slick—right before he jumped.

Her words turned into an awful squawk, and he looked up just as he reached the ground. He hit it rolling, without the sickening crunch she'd expected, but he came up off balance and almost instantly flopped to the ground again.

" _Corvo_!" she cried, scrambling up and running to him.

He lay on the cobbles, gripping his leg, and as she came down the steps to the plaza his wide eyes snapped up to meet her. "Lady Jessamine?"

"Are you okay?" she yelped as she slid to a stop beside him. She made a face as she held her hands out toward his leg, fingers curling. It didn't look like it was bleeding, and it wasn't bent in any strange way, but that only helped a little. "What did you do that for?" she implored, gaze snapping to his face.

It had gone an impressive shade of red since she'd looked away. He flinched, and at first she thought it was the pain—then he started glancing back and forth and all over the way he did when he was nervous. "Um," he started, quietly, "practicing falls."

Jessamine stared. That was, perhaps, the strangest thing she had ever heard.

"That," he murmured, "that one was bad."

She couldn't help it—she laughed, then immediately slapped both hands over her mouth. She didn't know if it was out of nerves, or surprise, or all or none, but he chuckled too, a weird huff of a sound before he hissed again.

She helped him hobble back to her spot behind the tree, let him stretch his leg (with him saying it wasn't so bad, his flinching slowly petering out) and sat in the quiet for a moment. Then she asked him why he had to practice falling (extra training, he'd answered, and she looked at him like he was crazy). He told her about the guard's preparations, how members of the lower Watch were being brought in to keep the order, guard the main gates and the water lock (but the Officers would still be protecting the main room, her and father, so she didn't have to worry). She told him about the madness inside the Tower, how she was sure she could balance an entire library on her head thanks to the etiquette instructor, and would rather not see another sewing needle for the rest of her life. And as hard as she tried not to, to talk about her painting or ask the things she'd been wanting to ask about Serkonos, everything came back to the ceremony. She found herself huffing in irritation.

Corvo went quiet, looking at her in that way he did when he was waiting for her to say something. When she didn't speak, he looked to his leg, letting out a soft hiss as he pressed a spot on his shin.

"Does it feel better?" she asked. "Do you need to see the doctor?"

He shook his head, gently rubbing the spot. "No. It's nothing."

"You jumped off a bridge!" she said, giving his shoulder a light push.

She wasn't sure what brought it about, but a quiet, secretive smile appeared on his face, even as he kept his eyes down.

"They don't make you do that in training, do they?" she asked.

"Ah, no," he answered hastily. "They don't make us do that. I just . . . want to be better at it."

"At falling?" she asked, feeling her lip quirk a little.

Corvo shrugged, and she thought that he looked a little sheepish. "At everything," he said.

Her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to figure out what that meant. Corvo didn't look up, still massaging the sore part of his leg. She was just about to give up and ask him, when he suddenly spoke: "Oh, I brought you something."

He looked behind them into the courtyard, where the lamps had not been lit—they rarely were here—but there was enough light from the and upper courtyard water lock to see by. He pointed toward the pipes protruding from the cliff wall, the crates at its base. "I left it earlier. It should still be over there."

Tilting her head, Jessamine took Corvo's elbow as he used the tree's trunk to push himself up. She squinted toward the crates as they walked into the courtyard, then looked to him, still hobbling slightly at her side. What had he brought her? What did he _have_ to bring her?

She craned her neck to see when he ducked behind the crates, shuffling around in the cliff grass that grew there. When he came up, gift in his hands, her squeal of joy was immediate.

"Oh!" she said, clapping as she looked at the twin training swords he held, one in each hand. They were painted black from twisting hilt to curving tip. Though they looked like the swords the guards carried, a second glance showed they had the duller shine of wood, not the luster of metal or leather. Jessamine didn't care—she was too excited to bother.

"Where did you find them?" she asked as Corvo handed her one, and she took it perhaps too hastily.

"The captain sent me to look for something in weapons storage," he said as he attached the other to his belt. He was grinning when she looked up, a self-assured thing that he might not have even known he was wearing. "I found these while I was there. It didn't look like anyone was using them. I thought you might like them."

"Thank you!" she said. "Will you teach me sword-fighting now?"

His grin wavered his hand found the back of his head, and he laughed in a small, nervous way. "I—" he started as Jessamine deflated a little, frowning in disappointment. "I guess I can't say no," he finished, his mouth twisting in a new, sheepish near-smile.

Jessamine perked up instantly. With nearly a squeal of delight she turned, leaning forward to thrust the sword straight out, her wrist rotated upward. "I see the guards stand like this. Is this right?"

He stammered for an answer, holding his hands up, then chuckled anxiously and came up beside her. "That's, that's good," he said, lifting his own sword and standing in a completely different way. "But try this . . ."

There was too much to cover in one night, and they hadn't practiced much at all before their training ground was darkened, grayish shadows misshapen by two sources of light. But Corvo was patient, showing her how to hold the sword (fidgeting when he had to adjust her grip), how to attack and block, letting her know what a parry should look and feel like in slow, instructive motions.

"And if they attack like this," he said, lifting his sword and angling it down at her, like he was about to chop wood, "you bring your sword up to block. You just have to keep it between you and their blade."

"Okay," Jessamine said, doing as he instructed. "And then like this?" she said, gripping hard and shoving his sword away.

"A little," he said as he stepped back. "But you have to do it fast, or they might overpower you. Try attacking me."

She did, coming forward quickly and thrusting the sword toward his chest, like he'd shown her. He was fast, bringing his sword up to counter, hers sliding off it like rain off the Tower roof. He gave her sword a quick snap, knocking it away, and she gripped the hilt tight to keep from dropping it. "Like that," he said.

"Okay," she answered, nodding along, focused on his every word. This was _much_ easier to pay attention to than her lessons; her instructors could have learned something from Corvo. "Can we try it faster?"

"Well, it'll take practice for you to get the movements right," he said, but obliged, moving a little faster when he brought his sword down again. She lifted her own to block, and with a swift crack sent his flying back—hardly perfect, her sword wavering in her hand, but effective.

He almost looked surprised, taking a step back, and she followed. "Yaa!" she cried, going in for an attack of her own. He blocked her with what looked like no effort at all, bouncing her sword back.

"You didn't just learn to do this, did you?" she asked, laughing. She moved a little slower again, letting him step forward and stab toward her side (where he paused a moment, a foot away from her ribs, waiting for her to remember the right hand positions to stop it).

"No," he answered with a chuckle of his own, like he'd been found out. "I was with the corps at home, too. They taught us."

"You're a cheat then!" she said, and even as she spoke he slipped his sword away from hers, spinning the tip in a tiny circle that pulled it out of her block. She squeaked and moved to stop him again, shoving his sword away clumsily and feeling it poke her in the side a little. She jumped at him, raising her sword high enough to hit him on the head. He blocked, and her laughter only got louder as she moved back and went for him again.

"I guess when you have to fight pirates!" she said, thrusting out for his chest. He went stiff, like a wave running up his arms and shoulders, and their swords came together with a _crack_.

Jessamine's sword did fly out of her hand that time, and with a yelp she stumbled, falling on her backside. Her eyes went wide with surprise and she stared at him mutely.

For half a moment Corvo stared back, the stiffness rushing out him, something sick and grayish replacing it. "I—I'm sorry!" he said quickly, flinching a little as he bent his leg, scurrying to offer her his hand. "I didn't mean to. Are you all right?"

Jessamine sat still for another moment, long enough to plot her next move. Then, she reached up and rested a straightened, blade-shaped hand on his forehead.

Corvo crossed his eyes to see it, hand still outstretched and the rest of him looking too bewildered to move. She couldn't keep her laugh in after that—it burst from her like a bubbly wave, echoing in the dark of the courtyard. He eventually seemed to get the idea, losing a sense of strain she hadn't seen in him until it lifted off. He chuckled weakly, and she felt guilty enough to move her hand away, taking his and letting him pull her up. He looked a little shaken, eyes shooting anxiously from her to the ground and back, like something horrible had happened. So she didn't let go of his hand, and when his confused gaze steadied on her she smiled even wider.

She was just about to say something when a loud, echoing call split the dark. "Lady Jessamine!"

She and Corvo froze, so still that it felt like they were trying to blend in with the pipes and boxes and trees. It came again, louder and closer—and again, and again, and she realized with a sinking feeling in her belly how many guards were searching for her. From the look on Corvo's face, big white eyes catching the light, he was thinking the same thing.

"Quick," she said, snatching her sword up off the ground. "We'll hide these here, okay?"

Corvo nodded instantly and followed her to the pipes, where she tossed her sword into the shelter of crates and grass. Corvo did the same with his own, and she danced anxiously around him, putting her hands on his shoulders to make him look at her. "You hide too! That way you won't get in trouble."

He nodded silently again, looking almost transfixed, though by what she didn't know.

"You're lucky you get to stay out later than me," she joked, then flinched when she heard a guard calling from the gazebo overhead. "Thanks, Corvo," she whispered as she let go. "Let's do it again, okay?"

With that she took off, edging quietly until she reached the bridge. When she looked back, Corvo was still standing there—she waved frantically at him, shooing him toward the shadows. Corvo crouched down, and made a similar gesture toward her and the light.

Letting out a frustrated huff, Jessamine went along with it, running to the courtyard stairs. "I'm over here!" she called loudly, the better to draw attention, squinting when a guard shined his light in her eyes. Blinking through it, she looked back the way she had come. Corvo was gone, as if he'd simply melted away into the dark. He was _really_ good at that.

She could already hear the start of the guard's soft chiding, telling her she shouldn't be out this late and it was dangerous out here, out anywhere at night. But they were calm and quiet and easy to ignore, and she knew Marta would be three times as bad when she got back inside. Jessamine sighed and nodded along with them, letting them lead her toward the Tower doors.

But she didn't think about Marta, or the guards, or what either of them had to say. Instead she thought, smiling just a little, about how Corvo hadn't let her win.


	4. The Decree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "At the age of twelve, the young monarch participates in the selection...making the final decision about who will safeguard his or her life."  
> \- Excerpt from a historical record of government positions and ranks

Jessamine felt like something in a display case, like one of the books or precious things behind glass in the library. Maybe a doll, her hair puffed and twisted, her gold and white ceremonial outfit so tight in the shoulders she couldn’t lift her arms above them. Her sour expression only softened, out of surprise more than anything, when she realized Marta was crying.

“It’s perfect!” Marta said, dabbing at her eyes. Jessamine saw the two seamstresses standing beside her, shielded slightly by the piano, relax. “My dear, I’ve never seen you look so beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Jessamine murmured, with no heart in it.

"Goodness sake's child, stop looking so glum," Marta said, coming over to straighten a flower broach at Jessamine's collar. "Your first Royal decree. Not many of us get one of those in our lifetime."

The seamstresses giggled, and Marta grinned at her own joke. Jessamine didn't do the same. If anything she was _more_ glum, uncomfortable and irritable and—and something else, she didn't know what. All she knew was that there was the bad feeling in her stomach, like her breakfast wasn't agreeing with her. As far as she was concerned, they could _have_ her Royal decree if they wanted it.

"You remember what you're to say, don't you?" Marta asked, moving an imaginary strand of hair out of Jessamine's face.

"Yes," Jessamine answered sullenly.

"Say it again it for me," Marta said. "Best to be sure."

Jessamine closed her eyes to fight the urge to roll them. She did as she was told, the words dull and overworked in her mouth: Jessamine Kaldwin, sound in mind, Cole Griggs. Her tongue felt dry, repeating them again.

"Wonderful! Oh, child, to think how you've grown." Marta put her hands on either side of Jessamine's face so suddenly that Jessamine flinched back a little (wondering why they had bothered to powder her face, if they were just to going to smudge it off). "To think, barely a few years since you first learned to toddle. You were a little menace then, too!" Jessamine's nose scrunched. "And now look at you. Why, if your mother—"

She quickly went quiet, blinking at the ceiling, before looking back at the door. "Well, come along now," she said, "it's almost time!"

The ceremony wouldn't start for another hour. Jessamine sighed, knowing there was no use arguing, and the seamstresses bowed as she shuffled uncomfortably past.

She heard the crowd downstairs long before she saw it, as Marta ushered her out of the music room and toward the staircase. She didn't need to see them to know who they would be: father's associates, members of Parliament, nobles she barely recognized and  would rarely see until she made her debut at court. As she stepped onto the turn in the steps she was hit with the smell of food filling the sitting room—cheeses and breads, vegetable arrays, baked shark and ox meat, servants setting the tables with silver platters and shining covers. All for the reception, where she would have to listen to everyone talk about boring adult things—boring small talk, boring business, boring boring _boring_ politics.

They marched quickly through the library and sitting room, into the hallway that led to the foyer. The sound of voices carried down the echoing corridor, and Jessamine's nostrils flared. Marta caught that look and shook her head with a stern lip. Jessamine quickly straightened out her nose.

"Now, child," Marta said, ducking to the side of the hallway so as to not draw attention, "you can go out there and entertain your guests, or you can stay in the library until the ceremony starts. I'll leave you the choice, but I think you know the better of them."

Of course she did, Jessamine thought. Glancing around, she spotted one of the sitting room's stiff reading chairs, and walked back in to perch primly on it. She swore Marta's sigh was great enough to shake the platters from the tables. "Have it your way, my dear."

Jessamine nodded absently and Marta went away, sharp comments to the kitchen servants trailing behind her as she shut the hall door. Jessamine slouched down in her chair, holding her chin in her hand. If the servants noticed her (and she felt like a few did, glancing her direction before quickly moving away) they didn't say anything.

She requested a roll from one of them as he passed, hoping it would settle her stomach, and stared out toward the hall. Soon enough she would have to stand here with them and smile, listening while they drank wine and smoked cigars and acted so bored. And she would have to be quiet and not say anything, because she had to be a _proper young lady_ —and what could she say anyway, when they didn't talk about anything interesting?

But that wasn't what was making her feel queasy. At least, she didn't think so. She ate the roll quietly, and found it hard to swallow.

The servants came and went,  back and forth through the library and into a side hallway that Jessamine had never used, bringing platters and plates and glasses and silver. The guests milled around in the foyer, far from her, though some well-dressed people came up the hall a few times, looking through the glass at the food. She nearly recognized some of them. None of them spotted her.

The minutes ticked away like that. With a strange sense of dignity she eventually stood and went toward the door, peering down the hall. She couldn't see any of the other nobles or Parliamentarians, the ones she knew filled the entry—but she did see someone. With clipped, measured strides her father appeared on the rise, smiling and shaking hands with a balding man in a dark-grey suit. Cole was at his side as always, immaculately dressed in a long coat of red and black, hair neatly combed, and she swore even his eyepatch was embellished with some sort of stones or jewels. She kept her eyes on him longer than she meant to, watched as he laughed heartily at something someone said. Her Royal Protector, the person she would trust with her life from now on.

She edged back to her seat, setting her hands on her knees and fidgeting one foot over the other. Soon enough the servants stopped coming, the last scurrying away after checking the placement of the silver. She heard footsteps echoing in the hall again, coming toward the sitting room, and not a moment later Cole opened the door and peered inside.

"And there you are," he said, sounding exasperated but good-humored. "Come on then! Can't very well go on without you. Come on."

She nodded shakily, getting to her feet and brushing off her tunic. She suddenly felt even sicker than before. She wished she hadn't eaten.

She shuffled stiffly out the door and down the hall, following on Cole's heels. They reached the rise and she, after a sharp nod from Cole, moved to her father's left, standing rigidly shoulder to elbow with him.

The crowd was bigger than she expected, but not by much, broken into groups that seemed to hover like lonely patches of foam on the river. At most they turned away to accept a new glass from a silver tray, or to have their cigar relit, but no more. Jessamine had seen gatherings like this before, so it wasn't unfamiliar—but it still had a strange, empty sort of feeling to it, one she had never liked. Now, with their eyes on her—some of them, anyway—she liked it even less. She edged a little closer to father, just as he started to speak.

"Friends, compatriots," he said, "esteemed members of state, welcome. It gives me great pleasure to see you here this evening, at this most important occasion: the formal naming of the Royal Protector by the heir apparent, and my daughter, Jessamine Kaldwin the First."

A smattering of applause went through the crowd, sounding dull and disinterested. Hearing her own name, Jessamine was sure her heart beat twice as fast.

Her father went on, saying something about the pride of the Kaldwin line, the importance of the Royal Protector and their devotion to the Empire. He introduced Cole (she caught a quick sideways glance at him, a red and sand-colored blob at her father's right), said something about his service against rebel factions. He made a joke that had something to do with the sewers. The laughter from the nobles was a little more enthusiastic than the applause from before, father and Cole chuckled good-naturedly—and Jessamine stood utterly still, weaving and wringing her fingers tight enough to turn them white.

She tried to calm down. She told herself she knew what she had to say, recited it in her head— _I, Jessamine Kaldwin, I, Jessamine Kaldwin . . ._ But her stomach wouldn't stop rolling, and no matter how many times she repeated it, it didn't sound right.

In the midst of running over every word in her head, thinking them again and again until it seemed like they weren't words anymore (and they _still_ didn't feel right), she glimpsed something moving in the side corridor, near the exit to the garden. She glanced over without thinking, eyes landing on the two people standing there—and stared.

Corvo was there, leaning forward and, it seemed, speaking quietly with another guard. She watched the other shake his head, gesturing between them. Corvo seemed to say something else, and after a few more seconds the guard rolled his head back, rubbing his chin, and waved dismissively. Corvo moved up beside him, standing at attention, eyes forward—then slowly, secretively, looked toward her.

Jessamine glanced away before he could catch her watching, and a light and happy feeling bubbled up in her belly. He came to see her.

"—and now that choice, granted to me and my kin before, falls to my daughter," her father said, his voice reaching her out of the fog of words, helped along by small applause. The uneasiness rushed back in and she swung her gaze straight, twisting the seams of her trousers between her fingers.

Father moved, and her eyes snapped toward him like she was a skittish mouser. He was stepping aside, arm held out, gesturing before him and smiling gently. She breathed in sharply, and it shook when she let it go.

She stepped forward stiffly, like a statue trying to walk. Cole leaned out from behind her father's shoulder, giving her a half smile, a wink and a nod toward the guests. She folded her arms behind her back like father always did—it didn't make her feel as brave as she had hoped—and stared out at the crowd.

Some of the people in the crowd looked back at her in a bored way, smoke puffing around their heads and drinks swirling in their glasses. Some chatted quietly with each other so they wouldn't be heard. But she saw none of it, their forms blurring before her eyes.

"Jessamine Kaldwin the First," her father said, a booming presence at her back that sounded so unlike him, "successor to House Kaldwin and future ruler of our Empire, speak the name of the one who will guard you through times kind and tumultuous. Name for the assembly the Royal Protector of the Empire of Isles."

She paused briefly, breathing in deep. "I-I, Jessamine Kaldwin the First," she said, feeling the words like molasses in her mouth, "heir of House Kaldwin,"—wait, but didn't father just say that?—"s-sound in mi—no, um . . ."

She didn't know why her eyes moved the way they did. They felt as if they should have been locked on the closed great doors, fixed there while her mouth moved around her decree without the help of her brain—"sound in mind," she managed. But then her eyes moved suddenly, jerked to the left, and found Corvo.

She wasn't sure if she met his gaze. It was too far away to really tell, to make eye contact—but even though his head was mostly turned straight she could see the slight tilt, the look toward her. She thought she even saw him nodding a little, in an encouraging way.

She imagined him smiling too, the way it had taken him forever to learn. The way he grinned when she gaped at him climbing the Tower. His nervous laugh when he was embarrassed about something, like saying the wrong thing or not finding their meeting place soon enough when she called him. Or the shy way he looked when he was pleased with himself—like the face he had made when he gave her her present. He was watching her now, smiling or not, she couldn't tell but—but watching, just the way he had when teaching her steps, encouraging the right moves during sword practice (looking nervous and stammering but teaching her anyway, not trying to avoid it or tell her no because it wasn't proper)—or in the courtyard the night before last, waiting to hide until she had reached light and safety.

She realized something. It felt like it rushed in on a breath, sparking like lightning through her brain, down her neck and into her stomach. She breathed in a quiet gasp, then let it out with a smile of her own. That was it! The words didn't sound wrong in her head now.

"—and body," she said, her voice alight as she leaned eagerly forward, "appoint Corvo Attano Royal Protector of the Empire of Isles!"

Quiet washed over the room like an ocean wave. It hit her last, and she felt the muteness around her, the blank, wide-eyed stares that met her as she looked back and forth. Her smile faltered.

Then, just like an ocean wave, the quiet drifted back out. There were no applause, even bored ones, or any answer to what she had said. Only murmuring filled the foyer, the guests staring at her strangely and whispering to each other. She started to fidget under their gaze.

"I, Jessamine Kaldwin the First," she repeated—maybe they hadn't heard her— "heir of House Kaldwin, sound in mind and body, appoint Corvo Attano Royal Protector of the Empire of—"

There came a crash from the side hall, loud and echoing and pulling the eyes of the room toward it. Hers turned just the same and fell on Corvo, where he suddenly stood with a shaky, jagged stillness, looking frozen in the open air—she saw bits of white glass at his feet, and realized the message-vase wasn't on its pedestal.  He lifted his head, and though she still couldn't see his face she realized he looked small and curled tight, like he was trying to hide.

She felt a sinking in her chest.

Something came down on her, making her yelp—Cole shifted at her side, his hand taking up nearly all of her shoulder. “Ow,” she said, trying to duck out of his too-hard grip. “Cole—”

“Be quiet, my lady,” he said in a dark whisper, the sort a shadow would use if it could talk. His jaw was locked, the corners of his mouth twisted. He didn’t look at her. His grip tightened even more.

“Well,” said her father too pleasantly— she turned to him as he stepped forward, and he looked right through her, striding toward the guests. “An interesting choice. Corvo Attano.” He rolled the name over slowly in his mouth, as if he were feeling an unfamiliar thing—his voice curled and dropped in a way she knew only she heard, as if it weren’t at all pleasant. “The young, prospective ambassador of Serkonos.”

The murmuring got louder. She looked at the crowd, glanced from one person to another and saw them whispering behind their hands, fluttering excitedly or wide-eyed, some of them trying to look around without being caught. Some eyes moved toward the side hall—when Jessamine turned,  Corvo was still hunched there, now with the weight of the other guard's hand on his shoulder. A tingle ran across her own.

Cole pulled her back suddenly, too fast for her to do anything but stumble as he turned and pushed her toward the hall. She gasped, his grip tightening to keep her from tripping without slowing down. Father said something about members of Parliament meeting him, politely and too cheerfully. She tried to turn and look at him, toward Corvo, but even as she pressed her heels down Cole ushered her down the hall and through the sitting room doors. He pulled them shut behind him, and the servants skittered out of his path in shocked silence as he pushed her into the library.

"Cole," she yelped, trying to pull away. "Stop it!"

His grip loosened, but not by much, and he didn't slow by even a step. He guided her up the stairs without a word. "Cole!" she cried again, jerking against his impossible hold. "I—I order you to stop!"

He faltered at the top of the stairs, just for a moment, and finally turned to her. He looked—she had never seen it before, not once in a her life, but he looked speechless, brows rising so high it was as if she had grown gills or an arm from her chest. Then he chuckled, the sound empty and humorless, his lip twisting strangely.

"I'm afraid not, your Ladyship," he said, and pushed her along. "Seems you can't be trusted."

He snapped his fingers at a guard by father's study, gesturing sternly down the hall, and the guard followed them. Jessamine was still trying to struggle out of his grip when they reached her bedroom door, and he released her with a push inside.

"Stay here," he said shortly as she turned back him, where he seemed to fill her door. "One of us will come to retrieve you. Try not to—" He paused a moment, brows furrowed and lip turning, as if fighting with his tongue. Then, he sighed in a way that looked so strange on him,  eye closing for moment as he breathed in and quietly let it out. "Behave," he said, when he opened his eye again. "We'll come back for you soon enough."

The sound of the door shutting echoed in her tiny room, or at least felt like it did. Jessamine stood in the middle of it, suddenly able to hear her own racing breaths, realized the way her fingers were twisting the fabric at the side of her legs. As she heard talking outside her door, too muffled and far away to understand, her thoughts raced violently inside her head.

She—she had disobeyed. That was certain. She—maybe they were angry they hadn't been told, maybe. But she hadn't known either, not until right then, and it was _her_ decision. Her first royal decree! So maybe—maybe it made sense that they were so angry. But—she fidgeted, bobbing up and down on her toes—but why this? Why—why send her away like this? This didn't make sense. Why had Cole been so—so mean? He had never acted like that to her before, even when he was scolding her, even when he was angry. Why had the guests acted like that, so quiet and then so—so, she didn't know what, especially after father said who Corvo—

Corvo. She looked up high on her wall, where the chimney met the ceiling, and bit her lip. Why had he looked so scared?

She had to find out. Without even bothering to struggle out of her ceremonial outfit and into something different, she marched for her bedroom door and threw it open. Outside she found the guard from before, turning toward her and looking nervous.

"Ah," he said, slowly moving in front of the doorway. "I'm afraid I can't let you leave, your Ladyship."

Jessamine stared at him for a moment, sure she understood—then, she felt her face scrunching up, burning pink. She puffed out her cheeks, sure even her hair was standing on end. "I am the heir apparent," she said matter-of-factly, throwing down clenched fists. "I wish to speak with my father, and to see Corvo Attano."

The guard looked even more uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his head, glancing up at the ceiling as if hoping when he looked back down, she wouldn't be there. When she was, it was with narrowed eyes and folded arms, her breath a huff through her nose. But when she tried to move past him again, he shifted in front of her, blocking her way.

"My apologies, your Ladyship," he said, carefully grabbing the edge of the door. "Captain Griggs' orders."

Before she could say anything, demand to see Cole, scream in frustration or even lift her hanging lip, the guard shut the door with a click.

\---

It was only after she had tried to sneak out twice, talk her way out three times, and (futilely) dash out once that she finally heard the door creak open. She lifted her head from her knees, propped there as she sat at the corner of her bed, and found her father standing in the doorway.

"Father!" she yelped, scrambling to her feet. "What's going on? Why is Cole so angry? What did—"

"Jessamine." His voice was stern, jaw set and face hard, and he raised a hand to quiet her. She was already silent by then. "Listen to me. I must have answers from you.  You must be honest with me. Do you understand?"

She felt stuck to the floor by the bottoms of her shoes. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good."  He looked up at the ceiling a moment, closing his eyes and breathing quietly. When he looked back, his gaze was just as sharp, and Jessamine couldn't stop herself fidgeting. "Did you talk to Corvo about this?" he asked. "About naming him Royal Protector?"

"N-no," she said, twisting her cuffs now and swaying, eyes on the floor.

"Look at me, Jessamine. Did Corvo say anything to you about the naming? Ask to whom you planned to give the title?"

"Kind of," she answered. She had told him about it, but he _had_ asked her questions . . .

He father leaned forward. "Did he convince you that Cole was not the right choice? Did he tell you to choose him instead?"

"No," Jessamine said, feeling like there was a stone in the pit of her stomach, getting heavier and heavier. "I didn't tell Corvo. I didn't know."

" _Think_ ," her father urged. "Did he say something to you? Anything at all to make you doubt Cole? To change your decision?"

"No," she said again, shaking her head, hands twitching as they rose to her face.

"You must be certain," her father said. She heard him step closer, and then his hand was beneath her chin, lifting it, making her look up. "Think as hard as you can! Are you completely certain that Corvo did not try to manipulate you?"

" _No!_ " she screamed, and pushed his hand away. Her eyes burned, her words catching in her sore throat. "Corvo didn't even know! I didn't tell him at all! Father, what did Corvo do wrong? What did _I_ do wrong?"

"Keep your head!" he snapped, snatching her by the shoulders—and more than Cole's icy silence, more than the murmuring guests, more than Corvo's terrified face, that wrung her stomach until she thought she would be sick. She jerked out of his grip, her hands flying to her face as it twisted up, warm tears dripping into her palms.

It was quiet in the room for a moment, only the sound of her harsh sniffing and choked sobs filling it. She heard her father sigh—a long, low, heavy sound—before she felt him holding her shoulders again. Instinctively, she tried to shake them off, but even as they held on they were gentler than before. "Jessamine, look at me," he said, then twice more before she let her hands slide away, just enough to see past.

Father looked even more tired than before. His shoulders seemed heavy, his body leaning, his eyes sunken and barely open. His mouth twitched, wrinkles spreading as its corners turned down. "Would you swear this before Parliament?" he asked her, squeezing her shoulders without anger. "Is this the truth, that you would not falter speaking it under oath?"

"I—" she started, sniffing, unsure how to answer. "I—I'd swear. But—"

"They want to hear it, Jessamine," he said, like he knew what she meant before she asked it. "From you. It will not be enough for me to tell them what you have said. You will have to speak before them, like a true Empress. Do you understand?"

"Um," she said, nodding and wiping at her eyes. "I think so."

"You must not _think_ , you must _know_ ," he said. "If they sense you are not sure they will not believe you."

"I am sure!" she said, sniffing. "I just—I don't know what's happening!"

Her father sighed again, just as heavy as before, his head tilting down with the weight of it. Jessamine stared between her sniffles. She'd never seen her father like that before. It looked—it looked so strange.

"You will understand one day," he said, and put a hand on her head. "But for now you must trust your old father. Can you do that, Jessamine?"

She wasn't sure what to say. So instead, she wiped the corners of her eyes, and nodded. Her father answered with a smile (weak, she realized, and small) and stood, turning toward the door. "You will be called soon. You must be ready when you are." He opened the door and hovered there, solid but drifting like a wall of fog. "Do not be afraid, Jessamine," he said, evenly. "Be strong."

Then, he stepped out, leaving her with the sound of the quiet ringing in her ears.


	5. Tête-à-Tête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessamine takes a stand, and finds she may have had too much faith.

Jessamine waited. She waited, face pressed into her covers until it had gone dry. She waited, watching the light beneath her door shift as shadows moved outside, the room's candles melting to half. She thought she heard Marta's voice once: hers, and then the guard's, then her a little louder and the guard more sternly, and then quiet. Jessamine rolled over in bed, stood up, wandered the room, tried to paint or read one of her books, but there was no water in her cup and no focus in her head. She changed to comfortable shoes, feeling a sense of defiance that quickly died off. She waited.

By the time a guard with a thick gray mustache came to retrieve her, saying, "They wish to see you now, Your Ladyship," it felt like she had waited a thousand years. Nodding silently, she followed him out, fidgeting even as she tried to stand up straight. She saw Marta as they passed a side hall, one hand held to her chest and brow creased. She seemed to be reaching out a little as Jessamine went by, as if to fix her hair from afar.

The guard led her back down the main stairway, passing the door to the foyer. There were only a few guests in the sitting around, milling around the serving tables—they looked up then away, glancing at her out the corners of their eyes. The guard put himself between her and their gaze, turning her toward a side hall.

They stopped at a great glass door she recognized, but only barely. The hearing room, where father had his most important appointments and met with men from Parliament. She could see them inside, men who had watched the ceremony sitting in rows that curved with the room, their muffled voices slipping through the doors. Beyond its warping glass stood a dark wood podium, and behind it, her father, speaking with someone in the front row. After a moment, his eyes lifted, and stopped on her and the guard. He said something to the other she couldn't hear well, then waved a hand toward them.

The doors seemed to spread a hush with their swinging as they opened, voices dying to a murmur so quiet she could hear her own shoe clicks. She felt a chill down the back of her neck as she sensed a hundred eyes on her—she stood up taller, tilted her head up more. She saw the viewing balcony overhead, packed with more Parliament men. She followed the line of them until she was turned nearly all the way around—they filled the balcony entirely, even the space immediately behind her, above an engraving of the second stricture over the door.

The guard put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her a few feet from the podium, then quietly stepped away. She instantly wanted to call him back, order him and his height and strength to her side. She felt a chill of sweat spring up beneath her collar, her fingers wringing. He father watched her too, his face calm and cool, like she had seen a hundred times before but had never had directed at her. She swallowed. She wondered if it made other people as uncomfortable as this.

Her father looked from her, away and to the right side of the room. "Please rise, Master Attano."

She felt her breath catch in her throat, and started to turn before she remembered herself. She kept her eyes straight, listening to the sound of chair legs shifting against the tile. "Approach," her father said calmly, followed by the sound of light and cautious footsteps. "Right there, boy, hurry up." Only when she felt a presence at her side and saw his shape out of the corner of her eye did she carefully turn to look.

Even when she had snuck him in from the cold one evening during the Month of Ice, watching him shiver and warm his stiff hands by the kitchen fire, she had never seen Corvo look so pale. He stood as straight as if a board had been shoved down the back of his coat, his arms fixed at his sides like those of a tin toy. She could see his hands, pressed flat to the sides of his legs, twitching, shaking. He was the only one in the room not looking at her.

"Jessamine Kaldwin the First," came her father's voice, booming yet soft, and she whipped her eyes forward. "Corvo Attano of Serkonos," he said (and she thought she heard a small noise come from beside her), "By crossing the threshold into this chamber of order and law, you have so sworn to speak truth, truth whole, and truth alone. Know that misdeeds against the pursuit of fact will be punished with the full power of the laws of our Empire."

She didn't think her father heard. She didn't think anyone else heard. But with Corvo at her shoulder, close enough to brush against, she realized how quick his breathing had gotten.

"Miss Kaldwin," her father said, and her mind stumbled strangely on how peculiar that was, "is it true that you had originally intended to name Cole Griggs Royal Protector of the Empire of Isles?"

When she opened her mouth, it felt as though river sand would come spilling out. "Y-yes," she said, as bravely as she could.

Her father nodded, just slightly, but it came and went so quickly she wasn't sure she really saw it. "And you instead chose one Corvo Attano for the position?"

"Yes," she said again. Why was he asking these things? Everyone here was there!

"Why did you alter your decision?" he father asked.

That one was different. She opened her mouth, then closed it, gaze drifting down to trace lines across the floor. She heard the murmuring around her, a quiet hum, as if she were in one of the nests of jungle bees she had read about in her books. If Corvo moved at all, she didn't see it.

"I—wanted to," she finally said, unable to think of anything more regal. The murmuring picked up, but with a lifting of her father's hand it died down again.

"Were you influenced by anyone in this choice?" her father asked. "Was this decision the result of another party's persuasion?"

Corvo moved a little. It looked like he was trying to hunch into his shoulders. Jessamine stood up straighter. "No," she said.

"Oh, _come now_ ," came a voice from across the room. Everyone seemed to turn at once. A plump man that Jessamine partly recognized (he had been at an official dinner once, and Cole had joked for a week that Dunwall Tower had been hit with a famine) rose from his chair. "Your Majesty, if I may, this questioning is folly. What proof lies in this testimony? A child would not know if she had been deceived if it was done with skill."

Jessamine felt something flare in her belly, and her mouth twisted and scrunched. What had been murmuring before turned into loud-voiced talk, men bandying unheard arguments back and forth, harsher with every word.

"The assembly has heard from Mister Inchmouth," her father said, loud enough to quiet everyone, and though his voice was calm she realized with a twinge of dread how dangerous it sounded—"and has found his arguments lacking in merit."

"The assembly reconciled little!" said Inchmouth. There came a grumble from some other men, enthusiastic enough that Jessamine could only guess it meant agreement.

"Perhaps because some representatives cling too desperately to their witless objections," came another voice. A guffaw of approval followed that, too, and the room burst into frenzied speech, each man trying to be heard over the other. Jessamine flinched, and wanted to cover her ears. Corvo shrank even more beside her.

Her father rang a large bell at the podium's edge, one that made a awful, loud racket almost as bad as the voices. "Order!" he called until the voices died down, only coughs and clearing throats left over. "For the edification of those in solidarity with Mister Inchmouth," he said calmly, "I remind the assembly that although Spymaster Haggens could not be present today, he has assured that no intelligence exists to suggest the presence of a prevailing spy network in Serkonos, least of all one they would use against their allies."

An odd grumble ran through the room. Then came another voice, calling from above: "It is not so easy to spot a spy when you can look clean over his hat!"

A wave of laughter swept through the room, and Corvo's face turned down, his breathing hard, eyes fixed on the toes of his boots. Jessamine felt a pang in her chest and did look around then, frown twisting her face as she watched the men snicker.

"I can assure the assembly that Master Attano's suggested involvement in espionage is entirely fictitious," her father said. "He has been appropriately interrogated, and cleared of such accusations. Further argument on this matter is not appropriate to this hearing."

"Interrogated by whom?" called Mister Inchmouth, and as the voices started to pick up her father rang the bell rapidly.

"If we may, gentlemen," father said. "There is testimony left to be heard."

Jessamine shifted slightly from foot to foot, breathing in and trying to keep calm. What else was there to say? Hadn't she answered everything father had asked her before?

But when he turned back, he wasn't looking at her. "Master Attano."

Slowly, Corvo looked up, trying to fight back the slanted eyebrows that had taken over his face. "Y—" he started, swallowed hard, and started again. "Your Majesty?"

"Did you have prior knowledge of Jessamine Kaldwin's decision to name you Royal Protector?"

Silently, Corvo shook his head, eyes on the floor.

"Speak, boy," her father said sternly.

"N-no," Corvo said, raising his voice with what sounded like great effort.

"Before this assembly, do you swear that you had no involvement in instigating this change?"

"Yes," he said, nodding shakily and not moving his gaze an inch—not even toward her, where she watched him out of the corner of her eye. "I swear."

"And if Lady Jessamine's decision should stand," her father said, "would you be capable of performing the duties of the Royal Protector, to protect your charge and the royal line, so long as you continue to hold the position?"

The voices had turned to whispers and silence. Jessamine watched as Corvo's shoulders sank, his breath shook. She felt a sudden twist of dread in her stomach. She remembered that first night they met, hiding behind the latticework, and she wanted nothing more now than to hold his hand like she had then.

"You are obliged to answer the question, Master Attano," her father said, when Corvo didn't.

"I—I . . ." Corvo said, or maybe not, because it didn't sound much like a word. Jessamine chewed her lip, curled and uncurled her fingers, begged him in her mind to just say yes. But Corvo stayed quiet, and she could feel the whole room tensing, impatience pressing down on them like heavy ocean waves.

"Master Attano—"

"He can do it!" Jessamine blurted, raising her hand like she was in school. There came a burst of talk, like steam out of a tea kettle. She shrank back a little as her father turned a stern eye on her, but quickly stood tall again.

"You asked if he could do it," she hurried along. "Well, I know he can. He's really good at sneaking and fighting—he beat a captain of the guard! And whenever I'm with him, he always makes sure I'm safe. I _know_ he can do it!" She paused a moment, the silence around her sitting heavily, then curtseyed. "Your Majesty."

A burbling of laughter washed through the room, lighter chatter following in its wake. Her father looked up, eyes trailing around the room, brow furrowing, and closed his eyes to sigh. Jessamine shifted anxiously in her place, expecting him to scold her. Instead, he lifted his hand, and flicked his fingers toward the door. "That will be all," he said. She suddenly felt the guard at her side again, saw another stop next to Corvo. "Kindly escort Lady Jessamine and Master Corvo outside. They will be summoned when deliberations are finished."

The guards led her and Corvo out into the hall (she watched her father as she went, the growing sound of the men's voices filling her ears until it rose to an incomprehensible roar), the door clicking shut behind them. Everything was very quiet after that.

They waited; the guards ushered her and Corvo to either side of the door and stood at silent attention between them. She tried to lean over, maybe say something to Corvo past their tall forms, but something besides her guard's incredulous look made her stop.

Corvo wouldn't look at her. His gaze twitched across the floor as he leaned over, hand curled tight around his elbows. He fidgeted, closing his eyes hard and reopening them as if he thought he'd be somewhere else when he did. Jessamine felt her stomach turning and slowly moved back, leaning heavily against the wall.

Deliberations? She thought, scuffing her feet against the wood floor. What was there to deliberate? She told them she made the decision herself, and it was the choice she wanted. Corvo had said he hadn't known, and she had agreed with him! That should have settled things, right? This was her first decree as future Empress. They couldn't—they couldn't tell her no, could they? They couldn't _make_ her pick Cole, right?

She felt a chill run through her, and thought of him dragging her up the stairs and locking her up like a prisoner. A Royal Protector was supposed to make her feel safe, and the way he had been—she wanted Corvo to protect her, didn't they understand? She was the future Empress and she wanted _Corvo!_

But—she slowly leaned forward again, looking past the guards to where Corvo sat slumped, anxious fingers wringing or reaching up to cover his face. What if—she thought, with a harsh pang in her chest—what if he didn't want to be her Royal Protector?

There came two sharp knocks at the glass door, and the guards turned to open them. Arm held out, Jessamine's guard gestured for her to enter. Corvo's took him by the shoulder, turning him around and guiding him inside.

She could hear the clicking of her shoes like lighthouse horns in the room's silence, and her stride was a nervous shuffle by the time she reached the podium. Corvo's guard gave him a push, and Corvo stumbled a little before righting himself beside her.

Jessamine swallowed, looking up at her father. She saw Cole, hovering near the curtained wall behind him, shoulders back and chin up. Looking at her with harsh eyes. She turned away instantly, feeling like her knees were turning to water.

"We have heard the testimony of Master Corvo Attano, and Lady Jessamine Kaldwin the First," her father said, his voice carrying around the room and eyes moving as if to follow it, "in regard to this sudden and unexpected changing of the guard. Lord Protector Griggs has served the Kaldwin family with dignity and poise, and to see him removed from the position is both alarming and troubling."

Jessamine felt herself shaking, rushes of unpleasant feeling shooting up her legs in angry bursts, roiling in her stomach and pressing at the backs of her eyes. She glanced at Cole from the corner of her eye—he stared into the upper balcony, face purposefully blanked.

"Lord Protector Griggs has served the Empire and the royal line exceptionally during his tenure," her father went on, "as his father did before him. Mister Griggs has never wavered in his conviction to the throne, and I have never regretted the decision to nominate him to the position after his father's passing."

Jessamine felt she would explode, erupt like a fire tossed oil-soaked logs. No. No, he _couldn't_! They—they—!

"That very choice given to me, and my dear cousins before," said her father, gripping the podium's front edge, "as far back as the days of the Morley Insurrection. As a foal first rises on shaky limb, so does a young ruler take his first steps toward leadership in naming his Royal Protector. If a foal is cut down as it begins to rise, it will be a creature docked, its power lost before it can even be gained."

Her father thrust his hand out, gesturing toward her, his voice rising to an echoing boom. "Jessamine Kaldwin the First, my daughter, has chosen strangely this day. She has made an unprecedented and, to many of the assembly, foolish decision. But just as I and those who came before were given this choice, decreed and respected at her very age, so too does it belong to her. To invalidate her decision now is to undercut her rule, and that is to weaken the Empire."

His gaze moved to her, and even as he spoke to the room, Jessamine felt like he was talking to her alone. "If there are consequences for this decision, my daughter will face them in time," he said. "As have a hundred Emperors before her. But today, for the good of the Empire and all assembled here tonight, and by my order, her selection of Corvo Attano for the position of Royal Protector will stand."

Jessamine felt her breath rushing in like she had never breathed before. She turned to Corvo and found him wide-eyed, bottom lip hanging down. She wanted to laugh, to pull him into a hug that would make him stutter with embarrassment, thank her father a thousand-thousand times.

"However," her father said, the word seeming to drag with great weight, "while Master Attano possesses exemplary combat abilities for a young man his age, he lacks the years to suitably serve as Royal Protector now. There is also the question of his precarious citizenship, as well as his upcoming return to Serkonos as negotiated with the Regent of his homeland."

Jessamine felt as if her stomach had dropped out of her body. Manners and formality forgotten, she turned to Corvo, staring. He looked almost as surprised as she was, mouth dropping further, brows slanted, blinking fervently. For just a moment, his gaze started to sneak toward her before snapping back and sinking to the floor.

"Arrangements must be made to account for these unusual circumstances," her father went on. "Happily, there is precedence on the matter. As it was decreed during the reign of Emperor Wilhelm Cantrell the Second, in the event that a recipient of the Royal Protector title is not of age at the time of the formal naming, the former Protector will remain in service until such time as the position can be passed to his successor."

Jessamine's gaze snapped from Corvo—whose eyes had gone wider, mouth moving slightly as if speaking silent words—to Cole. He was staring high above, and hadn't so much as twitched.

"Taking into consideration the necessary experience of an accomplished Royal Protector, as well as Master Attano's current age and ambassadorship," her father said, eyes sweeping back and forth across the room as if caught by a pendulum, "it is decreed that for a period of ten years, the duties of the Royal Protector of the Empire of Isles will remain with Lord Protector Griggs. When this term has elapsed and Master Attano has proven himself prepared for the demands of the position, the title will officially pass to him. For the present, he will retain his duties as ambassador, return to Serkonos as planned, and keep all future scheduled tours of Dunwall without modification."

Jessamine didn't know what to feel. Her stomach twisted, everything she had heard seeping in—Corvo would be Royal Protector, someday. Not for a long time. Cole would stay. Corvo was leaving. Cole was—he was so angry. Corvo was going away.

"And by the rule of the Empire, it is so," her father said, and struck the podium with the heel of his hand.

Two claps cracked through the room, fed by every man there. "Here, here!" they said as one.

"I decree this special session of Parliament adjourned," her father said, then stepped back from the podium. A hundred feet began to shuffle around her and overhead, the room shivering and echoing with it.

She felt sick again. "Corvo—" she said as a hand came to rest on her shoulder, a voice gently goading her to move. She twisted out of the guard's grasp and turned, only to find the space beside her empty. Whipping around, she saw Corvo behind her, pushed toward the door by the other guard. "Corvo!"

She saw him lift his head. She was sure he started to turn, to look at her—before he was shoved into the crowd, and far, far away.

\---

Marta was quiet when she arrived for nightly duties, so quiet that if things were normal, Jessamine would have been fidgeting and wondering what she was going to be lectured about. But tonight wasn't normal, and Jessamine lay in bed, staring blankly at the base of her bookshelf and not feeling well at all.

Marta sorted clothes into the wardrobe. Jessamine saw her pause and glance up more than once before shaking her head, sighing gently. "Honestly child, what were you thinking?" she said as she shook out a blouse. "You're lucky your father was so lenient. He could have done much worse, mark me."

Jessamine rolled over to face the wall, puffing hair out of her eyes. "Mister Griggs is a fine man," Marta went on, softly. "You're lucky to have him as Protector for as long as you will. And to turn him down for that boy . . ."

Marta paused, and there was only the gentle sound of folding and flicking cloth. "Foolish. Improper."

Jessamine didn't answer or huff or move at all from her spot on the covers. Marta worked on in silence until all the washing was folded and stacked, closing the wardrobe doors with a muted click. "I'll be back in a spell, dear. Do try not to go wandering off," she said, without the bite to be stern. It didn't matter. Jessamine had no desire to be anywhere else, though she liked being _here_ just about as much.

Marta left the door open a crack, the brighter candlelight from the hallway spilling past the frame. Jessamine could hear the wind more clearly now, its moaning and thrashing rattling the tower windows. She stared glumly at her bedroom walls, rolling over and over again, feeling uncomfortable every which way.

She sniffed, face scrunching, pulling in short, agitated breaths. She didn't want to think about this anymore, about any of it! But it wouldn't leave her alone, running over and over through her head, and she sniffed more and swallowed and her eyes burned. She buried her face in the blankets, grabbed her pillow and slammed it down over her head, like she could knock the thoughts loose. It was no use—they were louder than the wind was.

She was so intent on making them go away that, at first, she didn't hear the banging coming from outside.

She didn't think anything of it right away, sure she was hearing the shaking of the windows. When it came again, she moved the pillow and looked toward the door, brows furrowing. There was a long moment where she heard only the howling wind, she was about to give it up as her imagination when she heard it again—harsh, short _bangs_ , nothing at all like the echoing of the storm.

She sat up, sliding from her bed and moving to the door. She cautiously peeked outside—Marta wasn't back yet, and the floor's guards weren't in this part of the hall. Fingers curling around the door's edge she looked to the windows, squinting at the dark glass. She saw the dull glow of lights off clouds, heard the wind's wailing pick up—but nothing more.

A fist shot past the window's edge, slamming hard against the glass. The face that half-appeared beside it was all that made her cover her scream.

Eyes swinging back and forth for any sign of guards, she rushed for the window. Her fingers flew frantically over the latch, yanking the bar away more noisily than she meant to, and jerked the window open. "Corvo!"

He perched there, crouching against the outside wall. Clinging to it with both arms, leaning to give one arm the freedom to move—he stared at her with wide eyes, breathing hard, looking like it took all of his strength to hold on.

Whirling to check the hall—the banging of the window and the wind was so loud, she was sure the guards would hear—then turned back, grabbed Corvo's hand, and pulled. He slid across the sill and scrambled inside, and before he even had his footing she frantically tugged his hand and dragged him toward her bedroom. "Get in!" she whispered, pushing him for the door. "Get, um—under the bed! Hide!"

Turning so fast she slid on the marble floors, Jessamine ran for the window and slammed it shut, struggling to force the bolt home.

"Lady Jessamine!" she heard as heavy footfalls approached. Her stomach turning, she murmured under her breath (words she learned from Cole and shouldn't have known) and turned to find a guard marching up beside her. He held the window closed much better than she could, and the bolt went in much easier. "My lady, what is this?" he asked, his hand still against the glass.

"Um," she said, stepping back and wringing her fingers anxiously. "It—it flew open. I heard it from my room and came out."

The guard kept his gaze steady on her as he pulled back from the window, brows furrowing. Jessamine knew that look, and fighting back her fear—not daring to look to her bedroom door, hoping he hadn't seen—she stood taller and put on her most indifferent face. "It must not have been locked properly," she said, lifting her chin.

The guard's look turned odd, and he seemed uncomfortable. Jessamine held in her sigh of relief. She knew whose job it was to secure the tower. "Apologies, my lady," he said, bowing. "If I may see you returned to your quarters."

She nodded in a bored way, then headed for her room, keeping her regal expression in place until she had shut the door behind her. Peeking through the keyhole, she watched nervously as the guard hovered near the window, looking up and down the hall, waiting far too long before he finally moved away. Jessamine let out a heavy breath, leaning against the door for a moment, then looked to her bed. She heard shifting from behind the bed skirts, and by the light of the candles she saw Corvo's hand poke out, pressing against the floor for purchase.

"Wait!" she whispered frantically, scrambling over and pushing it back. She lifted the cloth and saw his eyes, wide and reflecting the orange light. "Marta! She's coming back. Just—just wait. Stay there."

Jessamine scrambled up, blowing out the candles so hastily she splashed wax on the floor, and dashed for her bed. Not a moment after she had wrapped up under the covers, hoping Corvo wouldn't have to sneeze, the door creaked open.

She heard Marta pause, then sigh lightly, her footsteps soft as she moved into the room. Jessamine tried to slow her breathing as the steps came closer; she heard the click and chime of a metal tray being set at her bedside, and after a moment she felt a gentle hand against her hair. She had to stop herself from twitching or jumping.

She heard Marta murmur something too quiet to hear, then her hand moved away and she tiptoed out, the door clicking closed behind her. The room was silent, and Jessamine didn't dare to move and talk or make any noise at all. She didn't hear anything else either, nothing but silence from beneath the bed.

"That was really dumb," she said when the door didn't open again and no footsteps clattered past. Her voice was loud in the stillness, and she realized how much she meant her words, irritation trickling in. "You could've gotten us in big trouble."

Only the quiet answered her at first. Then, she heard a shifting and his voice, muffled in the dark beneath her. "Sorry."

He sounded like he meant it, and that twisted up her insides and made her feel even angrier. Curling up tighter under her sheets, she glared at the wall she couldn't see. She thought he wouldn't say anything else, and she didn't know if _she_ wanted to either—then his voice came again, right beneath her ear. "I just really wanted to . . ." he said haltingly, trailing off, shifting and pausing. "To talk to you."

Her throat felt sore, she realized, and she swallowed to make it feel better. She tried to think of something to say—or maybe she shouldn't! Maybe she should be quiet, the way he always was, and see how he liked it! But memories were tumbling over in her head, how much she had wanted to talk to him today, what the men had said, what her father had told them—

She felt so angry. But when words finally came, falling out of her mouth onto the pillow, her voice didn't sound like that at all. "Why didn't you tell me you were going home?" she said, choked and raspy.

"I didn't know!" Corvo said, a lot quicker than before. "The Regent told me I would go back one day, but I didn't know what that meant. I didn't even know if it would actually happen." His voice softened as he said, "I—I would've told you."

She didn't know what to say, so she didn't. She fisted her fingers in her sheet, pulling it up to her face.

"Why—" he started, cautiously, then moved, his voice coming from somewhere nearer to the edge of the bed. "Why didn't you ask me? About what you were going to do?"

The way he said it, like he didn't want to voice what he was talking about, made her want to curl up in the blankets and hide there forever. Then, he cleared his throat, murmuring, "I would've told you not to."

She suddenly realized why her throat hurt, why she kept sniffing and why her eyes were burning. She tried to breathe, to make it stop and stay out of her voice. "You don't want to be my Royal Protector?" she said, as steadily as she could.

"They don't want me to!" he answered. He almost sounded angry. "They hate me! You heard them. They think I'm a spy. They _hate_ me!"

"But you're not, right?" she asked, rocking on her side.

"No!" he said urgently.

"Then it doesn't matter what they think."

"Yes it does!" he said, and even whispering she had never heard him speak so loudly before. "Even if it isn't true, they can punish me. I don't think they even knew they were going to send me home. They probably decided it at the meeting. To—to punish me."

She couldn't stop it anymore. She pressed the blanket against her closed eyes, small sobs escaping her throat.

There was silence in the room, only broken by her feeble little sounds. Then there came a scrambling beneath her, and she felt something press down on the mattress. When she moved the blanket she found Corvo's silhouette, leaning over the edge of her bed.

"N-no, don't cry," he whispered frantically. "Please don't cry."

"I'm sorry, Corvo," she bawled, curling tight. "I—I'll tell my father to take it back. I'll pick Cole. I'll—"

"No! Don't do that," he begged, lifting a hand like he wanted to reach out, then pressing it harder against the cover.

"I'm not going to make you do something you don't want to," she said, sniffing, nose and eyes running, and even if he couldn't see it she knew that he could hear. "I'm sorry."

"Th—that's not what I meant!" She heard an odd sound, like the groaning of the blankets and the mattress being squeezed. Sniffling, she looked up, and blinked at the dark shape of him.

There was something there she didn't quite understand. Something in the tense look of his shoulders, in the heavy feeling that circled all the way around him. Like he was trying to make her know something he couldn't say.

". . . Do you want to be Royal Protector?" she asked, between hiccups.

"I," he said hesitantly. "I don't know." He leaned back, releasing the mattress to lean his elbows against it. "I don't know if I can."

Slowly, Jessamine sat up, sniffling as she folded her legs beneath her and pulled her blankets to her chest. "Do you want to be Royal Protector?" she asked.

"I don't know if I—"

"But do you _want_ to be Royal Protector?" she said sternly, even through a sniff. "To protect me when I'm Empress?"

He didn't answer her at first. She saw his head dip, and though she couldn't see his face she was sure his eyes were moving around nervously, that way they did when he was thinking too hard.

"I want you to be," she said, and meant it so much. "But only if you want to be, too."

"I—I think so," he murmured to the sheets.

"You think so?" she said, leaning closer.

She didn't expect him to look up, and when he did she was close enough that they almost bumped heads. He jerked back and she laughed a little in a strange, watery way. She heard him shuffling nervously around, saw him quickly look down. "They—they don't want me to be," he said, and just as her heart started to sink he looked at her again. "But I do."

"Then you're my Royal Protector!" she whispered, happy enough to shout, and before he could move she pushed forward and hugged him tight. He sputtered and she laughed again, nearly falling over on him. He caught both of their balances, and after a moment, lightly hugged her back. She squeezed him harder.

"All of the guards will have to listen to you now," she said. "You can boss them around all you want."

He chuckled, nervously, but she could hear it was real. "Yeah."

"And the men in Parliament," she said. "You can toss them right out if you want, especially if I say so."

"Uh, all right," he said.

"And if they're mean to you, I give you permission to do it right away," she said with a smile. "I trust you, and besides, you're Royal Protector!"

"I—" Corvo said, as she pulled away, and there was something like amazement in his voice, like he was realizing what she said for the first time. "I'm Royal Protector."

"You are!" she said.

"They'll still make me go home," he said, voice falling. "They haven't said when, but—but I think it'll be soon."

She felt her own spirits sink, remembering when father had said, then shook herself and put her hands on his shoulders. "But they said you're coming back," she said. "Remember? _Future tours of Dunwall_? You're still ambassador, so you'll come back someday. And while you're gone, we'll write to each other, okay?"

"Okay," he said, and there was something starting to work into his voice, like the smallest bit of excitement poking through.

"I'll write to you everyday!" she said.

Corvo paused and, stammering a little, said that was a lot of writing. But he said he would write too—she asked him to tell her about everything, _everything_ from back home. He shyly suggested that he could send her some things, and she hugged him again. Even though he had to go, even with Cole so angry and father so worried and Marta so sad and everyone _so_ upset, it didn't matter anymore. Corvo was her Royal Protector, and while he told her he could maybe send her something called a _mandolin_ from back home, sounding more excited the longer he talked, she forgot about everything else. She lit one if her more hidden candles and watched the way he gestured when he spoke, and she smiled and laughed into her hands until there wasn't any more water to her voice.

And she was happy—so, so, _so_ happy.

\---

In the Month of Earth, Corvo Attano of Serkonos became Royal Protector of the Empire of Isles. In the Month of Seeds, a ship came, and took him away.


	6. First Impressions: Anton Sokolov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions aren't always the best, particularly when meeting Anton Sokolov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness, everyone--real life obligations will do that to you. Hopefully, you'll find this chapter worth it.

II.

_She could hardly contain herself. Up and dressed before the dawn, she anxiously paced her room, unable to focus on anything at all in her excitement. After far too long, Marta came to her door, and Jessamine twisted her fingers in the sleeves of her blouse all the way to the waterlock gate._

_When she saw the entourage cross the threshold, and he blinked in the light outside the dark lock, she couldn't help herself. She all but charged him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and nearly toppling him—but he was stronger now, and with only a little stumbling he spun her to the side and put her on her feet._

_She got a long lecture for that later. But at that moment, all she could do was smile, and laugh at the look on his face._

\---

She breathed deep until her body could take in no more, eyes closing in deepest concentration. Her hands hung poised, twitching nervously with their purpose. Once more, just once more.

Her fingers dropped softly to the keys, plucking out the most well-remembered notes, played a thousand times. She let her eyes open to narrowed slits, focused on the sheet of ornate scribbling she should have known by heart. A finger stumbled, and she frowned, slowing briefly to gather herself.

It did not help much. Awry notes trickled from the instrument's thick strings, her lips twisting more and more with each. She bent her head, trying to focus in, to make the proper notes spill from her chest to her fingertips. They flowed slowly, but she could nearly grasp them within her mind, nearly reach . . .

There came a quick rapping at the door, and the glass panes swiveled aside. "My lady," came a quiet voice, "the artist is here."

Her hands dropped in three swift, careless jerks, wresting indignant cries from the instrument. Leaning back, Jessamine turned to the servant with a careful smile. "Thank you. Escort him to the foyer, please," she said. The girl nodded and vanished; as soon as she had, Jessamine let out a puff of breath from between closed lips like an irritable colt, stood and straightened her tunic. She would simply be lectured for not knowing the piece again. What a poor student Jessamine Kaldwin is—nothing she hadn't heard before.

"Father," she called when she exited the music room and reached the door to his quarters, knocking briskly. "The portraiter is here. Are you well?"

Quiet met her ear, and she was poised to knock again when she heard a click and a squeal, study door opening. Cole stepped through it, brushing aside a wayward crimson coattail. "Well enough, my Lady," he said, gesturing into the room.

She grinned, nodding as she approached and stopped in the doorway. Her father sat straight-backed and dignified within; she glimpsed Spymaster Haggen with his neatly cropped, mud-colored hair and pressed blue uniform in the chair beside. Father nodded at something she could only half hear, utterly and wholly focused.

"Just because your father's on in age," she heard whispered beside her. "Doesn't make him infirm."

She turned to Cole with a mock-sour look, mouth curling at the twist of his own. In younger days, he might have mussed her hair, perhaps laughed. But she had come to understand that smile in some way.

"Tell him I will wait for him in the garden then," she said, and was about to turn away when her father's voice followed her through the door.

"Jessamine," came her father's voice through the door, and when she turned he lifted his hand, beckoning her over. "Sit with us a moment, my dear."

Brow rising, she nodded, casting a glance at Cole before stepping into the study. "What is it, father?" she asked as she perched in the ornate red armchair opposite him, finding its stuffy smell odd and stale.

"Soon these considerations will be your own," he said, gesturing to the stern and serious Spymaster.

"Not _soon_ ," she retorted.

"Of course," he agreed, nodding with a capitulating smile. "But it is best you become accustomed to your duties before that time comes. Mister Haggen, please continue."

"That is the sum of our peacekeeping efforts in Morley, sire," Haggen said, clipped in every word. "As mentioned during our last briefing, several enclaves are under observation in Tyvia for possible connection to a greater smuggling ring, but conditions in the targeted areas have slowed investigation efforts. They are, however, not of vital concern. Serkonos is seeing slight increases in naval attacks by rogue forces in the eastern isles, but piracy in the region has remained relatively contained. Weather conditions may act in our favor in the south, as we expect an oncoming storm should cripple those forces shortly. The nation remains politically stable and aligned with the Empire due to the efforts of her Regent. It is possible that the young ambassador has been helpful in aligning Serkonos' loyalties, though that is uncertain."

Jessamine bit the inside of her cheeks to hold back a grin. _Uncertain_ though the Spymaster may have been, she had fewer doubts.

The conversation went on several minutes more, touching on little of interest (barring her father's questions on the location of the Spymaster's emissaries in Tyvia—that information was _classified_ , according to Haggen, and Jessamine's brow furrowed), and her mind began to drift.

She snapped back to the confines of the study as her father stood, straightening his vest. "If that is all, Mister Haggen," he said, "I had best attend to other matters. Do present your report as early as you are able."

They shook on their endeavor, sharing professional farewells (Jessamine nodded in place of a curtsy, and the Spymaster gave her a peculiar look) before father straightened his cuffs and bade her to lead the way.

"This artist," Cole started, shutting the study door behind them, following on father's heels as they descended the main stair, "does he go by the name Sokolov?"

"I'm sure he prefers _Mister_ Sokolov," Jessamine said with a cheeky grin. Cole made a face at that, nostrils flaring, and Jessamine's eyebrow arched. "Do you know of him?"

 "Tyvian stock," Cole answered dismissively, looking off to the oaken walls across the stairway. "That's all I know. That, and folks will sell their noble leg for a painting of his. Can't say why."

Jessamine let her eyes roll to the ceiling, grin small and knowing, before she turned away. She expected to find their guest waiting in the foyer, patient and professional, perhaps a stiff-lipped apprentice laden down with canvases and oils at his side. However, when she set foot on the library rug, she spotted an unfamiliar figure in the parlor, a grubby coat hanging in the dull light. A few more steps showed her hair long enough to brush a tall collar and a broad back, hands gesticulating to the amusement of a shy-looking maid. Jessamine's brows rose.

A servant beside the door that she had not noticed stood, clearing her throat at great volume. "Emperor Kaldwin and Lady Jessamine Kaldwin."

The strange figure turned, revealing a short beard (one he had clearly tried and largely failed to tidy) and simple clothing that befitted a person accustomed to sheep rather than nobility—but when he faced them, he stood straight and austere, as if he were quite comfortable where he was. "Your Highness," he said in a gruff voice, dipping his head to bow down to his shoulders. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance at last."

"We are happy to welcome you to Dunwall Tower, Mister Sokolov," father said. "My daughter has told me you are quite the sought-after man."

Sokolov's gaze moved to her, and she smiled, nodding in greeting. "Your skills are spoken of highly at court. It is good to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, my Lady," he said. She expected him to look back to her father, to turn and gather his things and ready himself to be escorted, but found that his gaze lingered on her a moment longer. "Your reputation precedes you," he went on. "I would be remiss if I missed the opportunity to introduce myself."

Jessamine blinked. She certainly hadn't expected to hear that. Slowly, her brow began to dip.

Her father cleared his throat, and as Sokolov looked to him she quickly smoothed her expression, replacing her smile. "I believe we can become better acquainted over the course of your work."

"Certainly, your Highness," the artist said, and gestured toward the parlor. "I believe I have found a suitable background for the piece, if you would follow me."

" _You've_ found?" Jessamine found herself saying. Sokolov turned to her again, the corner of his mouth quirking almost imperceptibly under the swath of his beard.

"If it pleases the Emperor and the Lady, of course. I would be happy to show you."

"Hmm, well," father said, brushing off his sleeve, "you are the artist, I suppose. Lead on, Mister Sokolov."

As he moved to follow, and the artist seamlessly took up beside him as they walked through the parlor (leaving his maid companion bowing as they passed), Jessamine glanced to Cole. He offered only a quiet snort in return, then blanked his face as they followed on Sokolov's heels.

\---

_. . . The masters are teaching us how to use other weapons now, and how to fight against someone not using a sword. They say we will face men with arrows and guns one day, and things we have never seen before. They say we must be prepared for anything if we are to be proper soldiers. I will not be a soldier, but they say I should know these things best of all._

_I am sending a drawing of our crossbows with this letter. I don't think they can be found in Dunwall, and I think you would like them, Lady Jessamine . . ._

\---

It _was_ a lovely spot, Jessamine conceded, though she neglected to mention it as the servants brought a proper chair to the center of the gazebo. Instead, she stared out at the expanse of the river, the buildings on the Wrenhaven's west shore clear in the muggy Timber air. Cole leaned against one of the pillars, knife swishing slowly and methodically over what she believed to be a carving of a horse. Behind her, Sokolov kept to talking as the servants set up his easel, and father eased into his chair.

"It is, of course, ultimately up to your discretion, your Highness, but the city should serve as a fine compliment to the portrait, in my professional opinion."

She heard her father chuckle, and recognized the patience in his tone. "I have little preference. If you should consult with anyone, it would be my daughter. She was the orchestrator of this arrangement."

"Oh?" Sokolov said, and she didn't think it was her imagination when she felt eyes on the back of her neck. Jessamine ducked her head, smiling slightly before sighing dramatically and throwing up a hand.

"My dear father, there isn't a portrait of you to be found in all of Dunwall Tower," she said, flicking her fingers dismissively. "A bridge bears our name, before so much as an etching of you in your own home. It's long past due!"

"As you've said," father answered.

"And I'm sure Mister Sokolov doesn't mind the task," she said, turning with arms loosely folded.

"Certainly," the artist replied, attentively dabbing paint onto his pallet. "This will be a fine compliment to the body of my work."

 Jessamine's smile faltered slightly, though she wasn't sure why, and with a nod and noise of agreement she turned back to the river. It was true: her father had no proper portrait, which seemed unfitting for an emperor. She thought it a gift, as well, in congratulations for the completion of the new Kaldwin's Bridge north of the Tower. He deserved some appreciation for that, certainly, and she had heard such gushing at court functions about the unmatched talent of Anton Sokolov (only briefly noting his heritage) that it seemed the right time and occasion for such a thing.

There was another reason, she realized quietly, but pressed the thought back in favor of the river. She thought of the ships that drifted down its mighty expanse, breaking the rushing waters, counting them on childhood summer days too scorching for anything more energetic. She thought of strange but beautiful ships, pale brown and rounded, furling sails and laying anchor outside the waterlock gate.

A gruff sound split her thoughts, plucking her from her reverie; when she turned, Cole cleared his throat again, nodding toward the center of the gazebo. "Pardon me, my Lady," Sokolov said as she turned back to him and father. "I was merely saying you would make a striking portrait yourself. Perhaps join your father, eh?"

She saw the smile touch her father's face, moving extravagantly against his stillness, and in light of it she patiently offered her own. "Perhaps next time, Mister Sokolov. My father deserves his own painting."

"As you wish," he said, returning to his canvas, just large swathes of white and gray and blue yet. Her eyes hovered there a moment, caught by fond memories and nostalgia gently stirred. "Though by _next time_ I expect you'll be sharing a portrait with your husband."

Jessamine's smile faltered. "How long do you expect to be painting, precisely?" she said.

Sokolov seemed to miss her tone, chuckling on cue. "It appears you are unaware what talk certain circles make of your marital affairs. Is that right, my Lady?"

Jessamine's lip dropped, and it took pointed effort to bring it back to place. The—the _audacity!_ What gave this man the right to speak to her that way—?

"My daughter," father said sternly, "is not yet set for marriage. She is yet young, and an empress has cause to be particular. It is also my understanding that it holds little interest for her now." He lifted his eyes with little movement of his head. "Is that still correct, Jessamine?"

She was sure Sokolov didn't understand her father's smile properly. She certainly did, and her own mouth turned just so, her indignation cooling in equal measure. "For now, yes," she said, then turned an eye to the artist. "Perhaps these _circles_ should be made aware of that."

"I believe some are," Sokolov responded conversationally, dipping his brush in a pool of blue and drawing it precisely across the canvas, as if he had no understanding of their words. "But I will do my utmost to make it known when and where I can."

Jessamine thoroughly doubted his sincerity. Her father seemed satisfied, however, and Sokolov quickly turned to talk of father's accomplishment (particularly, she noticed with a twisting lip, the bridge— _a true symbol of Dunwall's wealth of architecture and commerce, your Highness_ —) as he proceeded with his task, seemingly unaware of her.

With arms folded stiffly over her chest, Jessamine turned back to the river, and resolved that the man's work had best match its heralded quality. She suddenly suspected she would bear Anton Sokolov for little less.

\---

_Dear Lady Jessamine,_

_I sincerely apologize for the misunderstanding. You are correct: a kiss is a traditional, familiar greeting in Serkonos. I had not expected you to know that, so I apologize if I appeared unsettled. Please be assured that it was simply surprise you saw in me._

_My hours at the Accademia Miltar, I say honestly, hold little of enough interest to inspire a proper story. I am honored to train under Serkonos' great sword and weapons' masters, but regardless, I imagine you have tales of far greater interest to tell . . ._

\---

Jessamine made herself pointedly scarce at dinner that evening, and the one after, and many subsequent meals which she knew Sokolov would attend. He was, thankfully, not so difficult to avoid—the Tower was large, as were its grounds, so it was often a simple matter of keeping to her desk, or sequestering herself in the gardens. She could even request an escort to the Legal or Estate districts if she felt so inclined (though neither, she admitted, held much of interest), or take to an alcove near the front gates and watch the Tower sightseers mill about. Sokolov most often kept to his work, haunting the gazebo and making blessedly steady progress on father's portrait. Unfortunately, he defied that expectation with frustrating irregularity: more than once she found him in father's library, eying the books, or in the foyer, gazing at the architecture and murmuring to himself. On one occasion she glanced out a window and found him in the garden with no announcement of his arrival, chatting with a thoroughly enraptured maid. The twisting of her face reflected transparently in the glass.

"What is the man like, truly?" Marta prodded one evening as she twisted a lock of Jessamine's hair around an ornamental wooden shoot. "Is he as handsome as  they say?"

Jessamine cleared her throat to disguise a snort, and not thoroughly. "Hardly," she answered, drumming her fingers on her knees. "He has the look of a swineherd. I'd expect the smell as well."

Marta's fingers paused, hovering against Jessamine's hair. "My Lady, that is unkind," she said, almost scolding.

"An unkind truth," Jessamine retorted.

"I must say, I am surprised," Marta said as she tightened and speared another curl. "If I recall, weren't you the one who invited him?"

Jessamine's nostrils flared, if slightly, and she brushed a wayward strand of hair from her eyes. "I had expected someone more refined," she said truthfully. "More courteous. As if he knew how to speak to nobility."

Marta worked on in silence then. Jessamine curled her fingers around her knees, feeling odd, and irritable in kind.

As the breezeless days of Timber dawdled into the warm nights of Clans, father's portrait began to come into itself—image clearer, line starker, details finer—from what she could see from the Tower window. In a moment of leniency she accompanied father to his sitting place again (covering her mouth when she heard Cole murmuring about how _long_ a portrait could possibly take to paint). She glimpsed the piece as they approached, and ambivalent to Sokolov though she was, even a glance left little room to deny his talent: he had replicated the background flawlessly, the incline of her father's shoulders already displayed a certain dignity, and she could make out the well-rendered details emerging in his face.

"I hope it pleases, Lady," Sokolov said as he collected his pallet and oils, attention set on arranging them. She could not place it, perhaps in the simplicity of his comment or the lessened arrogance in his voice, but she did not feel so perturbed.

"For now," she answered with a nonchalant shrug. "We will see."

He even seemed tolerable at dinner: while he did speak at great length on subjects the rest of them only tenuously grasped (and deferring to father in a subtly calculated manner; Jessamine rolled her eyes to the dark-draped ceiling over her soup), they were at least of some interest—he talked about the movement of the spheres, noting the clear night, and when prompted by an offhanded comment from Cole, turned the subject to Tyvia. Jessamine's knife paused mid-cut, her shark steak briefly forgotten as the artist spoke of great mountains, harsh storms, vicious tusked walruses and bountiful feasts in halls warmed by iron stoves.

"Seems too good to part from," Cole answered flippantly, much more interested in his mashed tubers and roots.

"I like to believe I was destined for greater things," Sokolov answered smoothly, and for reasons Jessamine could not fully grasp, looked to her. She instinctively let her eyes drop to her plate, and by the time she had furrowed her brows and lifted her gaze, he had turned away.

As the saucers, plates and salvers were cleared away and desserts laid in their place, a servant approached, bowing deeply when she reached the arm of Jessamine's chair. "My Lady," she said, extending a silver platter bearing—Jessamine's breath caught.

She plucked up the small bundle presented to her, turning it over. The seal of a great flying bird met her eyes, pressed in red wax—she knew it in a moment, and a grin took her face. "Thank you," she said absently to the servant, lifting her eyes to the table. "My apologies, father, but if I may," she said as she stood from her chair.

Her father let out a small chuckle—his version of patient exasperation—and gestured lightly toward the door. "You may," he said. "I suppose we will manage to occupy young Sokolov in your absence."

Jessamine laid eyes on the artist, caught the edge of his glance as he evenly returned to his berry tart. It was a strange look he always had about him, she realized, one she was not used to. Though she pressed it from her mind as she made for the dining room door, she could not help think (only briefly, the thought vanishing as she slipped her fingers beneath the envelope's lip) how she could not pin down its purpose.

But it was not Sokolov's eyes that followed her from the room. Jessamine felt another's gaze on her back: Cole's gaze, hard and unyielding. Though it unsettled her slightly, she put it from her mind, and not for the first time. He knew just as well as she did from whom the letter came.

\---

 _Dear Lady Jessamine_ ,

_I hope this letter finds you well. I must first apologize for the sparseness of my writings as of late. Graduation in rank and attention to my upcoming tour to Gristol have left little room for more pleasant activities. It is my hope that I may return to them in equal measure soon, and I hope this letter will be satisfactory for now._

_In apologies and thanks for your patience, please find enclosed a king's crown shell, which I uncovered during a brief training exercise in Saggunto. I recall you mentioning a desire to see the offerings of Serkonan shores, and if you will pardon my forwardness, I believe this shell is a particularly appropriate gift . . ._

\---

Jessamine let her eyes drift to the beginning of the letter once more, turning the shell in small circles, thumb brushing lightly over its spines. She strained to make out the scrawl in the growing dark, sunlight vanishing behind the great bulk of the Tower. Memory helped her, calling up his brief talk of the Martial Academy in Karnaca, detailing the destinations on his Gristol tour, inquiries as to her health and answering questions from her last letter here and there and there again. The Empire for a proper torch—light began to drip from the windows overhead, pooling in the grass, but she found it barely enough to see by.

With a sigh she stood, feeling the lightness of the paper in her hand as she slowly made her way to the garden door. His letters were never long—he wrote, if perhaps more elegantly, about as excessively as he spoke—but nevertheless lifted her heart, tonight more than ever. Three months, Jessamine thought with a curling smile as she closed the door behind her, scaled the steps to the upper floor and quietly traversed the study.

Drifting idly down the corridor, Jessamine held the shell up, the hallway torches glazing it with a soft orange light. She imagined it on one of those Serkonan beaches, buried in soft, white sand, washed smooth by warm ocean waves. Her finger tested the point of a spine, and she tried to envision what sort of training brought soldiers and guardsmen to such idyllic ground. She thought of Serkonos' best warriors, shaded by palms and buried up to their ankles in sand, expertly dodging beachgoers. She thought of Corvo, professional and focused with trousers rolled to his knees, and buried a giggle in her fist. (She certainly hoped he had found this treasure with his eyes, and not his feet.)

Her thoughts lingered there, on Corvo and great rounded ships, on that face as it emerged from the dark of the waterlock and blinked in the sun. Perhaps she would soon be walking this very corridor with him, watching as he observed how little everything had changed.

It wouldn't be long now, she thought as she looked to the letter. After two years time, it did not feel long at all—just as it had not the time before, and the time before that . . .

Her eyes rose as she approached her room, smile small and serene, and it fell instantly when her gaze landed upon the door. It stood open, wide open, and as she hovered back from the threshold and peered inside she saw movement within the room. _Someone_ , too tall to be Marta, nearly plain-clothed—someone that looked remarkably like—

" _Mister Sokolov_?" she said, unable (and unwilling) to soften her outrage.

The brute leaned back into the doorframe, bemusement splashed like paint across his face, only to be replaced by an appallingly familiar grin. "Ah, Lady Jessamine," he said cordially as she marched forward. She gripped the doorframe, eyes darting; Sokolov stood casually before her desk, fingers set on a stack of papers, looking utterly unperturbed at being caught in his invasion. "It is good to see you at last. I had hoped to speak with you after dinner, and could think of no better place to wait for you to return. Might you have a moment?"

She heard Sokolov's words, but failed quite thoroughly to comprehend them—she had realized with a hot flash of horror the _content_ of the documents beneath the artist's prying fingers, the short stack of writings. She felt her face tingeing red, cursed herself for leaving them out—she cursed herself more when she lifted her eyes, and found the artist has followed her gaze with quizzical glance.

"Ah, pardon me, your Excellency," Sokolov said, the respect of his words missing from his relaxed tone. "However, I must say, if this work is yours, I am impressed. It seems you know The T[ales of Prince Kallisarr](http://dishonored.wikia.com/wiki/The_Young_Prince_of_Tyvia) quite well."

"Out," Jessamine ordered unceremoniously, stepping back and thrusting a finger toward the hall. " _Now_."

A shadow of concern drifted across Sokolov's face, as if cast by a storm cloud. Perhaps realization at the extent of his blunder. Jessamine felt the smallest twinge of satisfaction, not nearly strong enough to soften her anger—a royal sort of anger, the sort that would cry _jail_ and _banishment_ if it so chose!

"Apologies, my Lady," Sokolov said as he removed himself from her quarters, bowing gracefully once he stepped into the corridor. "Perhaps another time."

Jessamine remained silent, lips pressed into a thin line as he withdrew down the hall, her gaze knife-sharp on his retreating back. She threw the door shut with a _bang_ , dropped what she held on the desk to pick up the paper stack and thrust it angrily into a drawer. Slamming it closed, she dropped into her chair and gripped its arms tight enough to make the wood groan. The _nerve!_ She had never, by anyone, been so—and by a simple _artist_ of all people! A rude, boisterous, uncivilized Tyvia _dauber!_

It took several long minutes for Jessamine's teeth to unclench, for her fingers to grow weary of gripping and loosen. A short time more, and she finally noticed Corvo's letter, crinkled in her anger. With a sound of regret she pulled the paper over, smoothing the creases. It helped some, and she was pleased to find that when she plucked it up his gift was not damaged. A moment of thought and she reached for another desk drawer, pulling out a small box and opening it to the letters contained within. She spread them across the desk, turning to read the first: _Dear Lady Jessamine_ . . .

Perhaps these would cheer her up, she thought, for now at least. After tonight, she did not intend to bear Sokolov much longer.

\---

_She found him on the roof, staring absently into the distance. As she gasped and scrambled to pull herself onto the cobbles he caught sight of her, went white as the sheen of frost beneath her fingers. In an instant he was up and gripping her hands, guiding her from the edge well after she had caught her balance. He asked her—politely of course—why she had come up here. With a giggle, she asked him the same. That brought the color back to his face at least._

_She sat beside him on the ridge of the roof, watching the pink sun setting over the Potterstead countryside and hugging her knees to her chest. Her gaze drifted. She wanted to ask about what Cole had done, if Corvo was all right. He was ambassador now, the next Royal Protector—Cole didn't have the right to boss him around like he was still a Tower guard, and Corvo didn't have to listen in that quiet way he did—_

_Then she realized Corvo was looking up, high in the sky, eyes narrowing in concentration._

_"What are you looking at?" she asked, leaning close to his shoulder to see by his gaze._

_"I can already see stars," he said, pointing toward the sky._

_He was right. She could see them too, pale specks in the early evening light. She started to count them, curling closer to his warmth in the evening chill. As the sun set and the sky grew dark, long after the lights inside had dimmed (but before Marta came frantically calling for her) they watched more stars than they could ever hope to count wash across the sky._

_\---_

Jessamine sighed deeply, leaning back into her chair and shutting her eyes to the dark. A cool breeze reached her in the alcove, plucking at her hair as it rustled through the waterlock promenade. How good it felt to have this place back.

Silence permeated the grounds, the chatter and bustle of the Tower's daily crowds long quieted. No easel stood on the platform overhead, Sokolov's painting finished at last and moved to father's study for safekeeping ( _marvelous_ , she had heard it called by at least one Parliamentarian as she passed the door, _remarkable_ ) and peace restored. After another week of sidestepping and scarcity, she was glad to have full access to her home again. Thankfully, father did seem to like the portrait, so for all of her own misfortune she supposed it was worth it—so long as she never had to lay eyes on a certain bearded painter again.

She breathed deep the evening air, the smell of the river rising up over the rocks to calm her sudden bristling. Letting the quiet fill her mind, she listened to the sound of the rushing current made soft by the cliff face, the wind, the creaking of her chair as she moved. The footsteps of a distant, patrolling guardsman whispered in the courtyard, easy enough to ignore. She opened her eyes just slightly, looking up at the blackness of the sky, the pinpricks of light nestled there.

She had only just noticed the greater volume of those steps when she heard the gruff sound of a clearing throat. "The tusked leviathan," came a voice that made her stiffen in her chair. "Yes, that's right. Quite easy to spot without the cloud cover."

She looked quickly behind her with disbelieving eyes, and found Sokolov strolling nonchalantly down the courtyard steps. Her face twisting into an unseemly shape in the confines of the dark, Jessamine turned her back dismissively. "This is a surprise, Mister Sokolov," she said with no hint of welcome in her voice.

"My apologies, Highness," he said. Jessamine's fingers curled into the arms of the chair as he approached. "I had hoped to speak with you, but it seems you were absent during dinner."

"Hm," Jessamine answered.

She kept her eyes forward as he approached, seated himself across from her at the iron garden table without invitation. He cradled something in his hands that caught slivers of tower light, and perhaps on instinct she turned toward it—a bottle of some sort, stout crystal, with a small pocket of indistinguishable liquid within. Her nostrils flared.

"I've a peace offering for you," he said with a hint of humor, placing the bottle on the table, "if you'll have it."

Jessamine snorted quietly. A _peace offering._ Perhaps he wasn't so imperceptive as he seemed, but that helped little. "I do not know how it is done in Tyvia, Mister Sokolov," she said dryly, "but in Gristol it is unbecoming for a gentleman to drink with an unmarried lady." She glanced toward him, her eyes narrowing. "Some might call it a proposition, and _think_ how they would talk."

He chuckled nonchalantly, and she felt a lick of fire run through her stomach.  "Is that what you think I'm doing?" he said. Jessamine's eyebrows rose—his careful formality was gone in a change of tone and a dropping of titles, and the sheer nerve of it was enough to stop her for a moment. Who _did_ this man think he was?

"I believe it is fair to say," he went on, "that we did not part on the best of terms when last we met. Please consider this an offering of amends from one person of intellect to another. I spared no expense, I assure you."

Jessamine stared at him a long moment before her eyes dropped to the bottle. She let a quiet huff out through her nose, taking the glass in her hands, looking it over in the dim light from the tower. There were no markings, no hint what was inside—merely a carved crystal decanter, even the cork clear, cradling mysterious, warm-red liquid.

"An intellectual," she murmured to the bottle, chuckling derisively under her breath. "We are not friends, Mister Sokolov. What do you think you know of me? What is it that you hope to accomplish with this?"

"I know little more than gossip, and what I have seen of you with my own eyes," he answered. "And I wish to remedy that."

"Why?" she asked.

"For my own purposes, My Lady, if that makes you more comfortable," he said with a shrug. "One can always use the favor of an Empress in their back pocket. I could give you the true answer, but I believe that is best done over a drink."

Jessamine took a moment to settle on her next words. "You do realize," she said, leveling her eyes at Sokolov as she cradled the bottle in her palm, "that men have been jailed for less than what you have said to me, this evening alone?"

"I fall upon your mercy, then," he answered, eyes drifting across the stars, as if this conversation were of no particular significance. As if it were a familiar friend he was speaking with, ready for ribbing, not the daughter of the Emperor.

She felt the weight of the bottle in her hand as she kept her gaze on him. He seemed to notice after a moment, turning to meet her with his own glance. They held a moment, eyes locked—then she sighed, lifting her head and breathing deep.

" _Guards_!" she called, to the men she knew stood on the garden bank above. Sokolov's face fell almost imperceptibly, a slight turn of the lips and a widening of the eyes—perhaps it was unkind, but it brought a smile to her face. "Send for a food tester," she said when the shadows of two decorated forms cast themselves over the ledge. "And a set of glasses, if you would."

As they marched promptly away, Sokolov hid a sigh she was sure she wasn't supposed to see. "So," she said, looking up at the sky. "What was this _true answer_ of yours, Mister Sokolov?"

"I think it best to wait on the drink, Your Highness. For now, do tell—what do you see there? The Captain at the Helm is shining brightly tonight . . ."

He dawdled impressively until the food tester arrived, a slight thing that made her way so quietly Jessamine did not see her until she appeared at the table. Sokolov seemed to brighten at the sight of her, and Jessamine's eyes had already begun to roll upward when he spoke. "Ah, I _had_ hoped you would volunteer, my dear. Lady Jessamine, Dunwall Tower has kept quite the promising talent locked away. Our lovely Delilah is wasted in the kitchens—I'm sure the two of you have met?"

Jessamine blinked, squinting as the taster set down a glass and went to work opening the bottle. She seemed to be blushing, from what Jessamine could see in the pale light, a bob of dark hair falling in the way of her eyes. She looked familiar—was she not one of the maids Jessamine saw speaking with Sokolov? More than once, she realized as the girl lifted the liquid to her lips, that form now outlined in a small plethora of memories. A few moments' wait and the girl calmly stepped back, bowing her head and looking no worse for wear.

"Well," Jessamine said, nodding, "thank you, Delilah."

Delilah returned the gesture, nodding slightly as Sokolov took up the bottle and poured himself a glass, draining half the contents. "Now then," he said as he passed over the remainder (with Delilah trying to receive it to pour Jessamine's share, stammering and dropping her gaze when Jessamine took it herself), "a toast to the Emperor and future Empress, and the strength of the Empire. What say you to that?"

Jessamine glanced at the drink, then up at the face before her. It was no more clean shaven than the first day she saw it; there was no less arrogance in those eyes, no more innocence in his smile, nothing to suggest she would be wise to keep company with Anton Sokolov. After another moment's pause, she slowly lifted her glass, touching it to his with a delicate _clink_.

"Now, Mister Sokolov," she said as he emptied his glass in a gulp, "what did you wish to speak to me about? Truly?"

"Ah," he answered as she took a sip, "I intend to offer you my services as a tutor."

Jessamine only half heard him—she wasn't sure if his words were to blame, or the vile, burning taste that filled her throat, but in an instant she was coughing violently, barely able to set down her glass. As Delilah rushed to her side (both moving to pat Jessamine on the back and shying away in the same motion) and Sokolov calmly and unhelpfully talked of the properties of King Street Brandy, Jessamine could not help but wonder (in inelegant terms) what she had brought upon herself.

\---

 _Dearest Lady Jessamine_ ,

_That you enjoyed my gift brings warmth to my heart. As my tour draws near, please think on any other things you wish to see from my homeland. I would be more than happy to provide them, if that is your desire._

_Also, I believe I have heard of Anton Sokolov, although only vaguely and I know little of him. However, from what you noted in your letter, he seems to be an interesting, if curious-sounding, man . . ._


	7. Friends in Strange Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation is issued, Jessamine discovers someone forgotten, and something else is remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually supposed to cover more ground story-wise, but ended up getting longer and longer until it needed to be split in half. Hopefully you enjoy this part, dear readers, while the next part is prepared!

"Who is it from my lady? If—if I may."

"Hmm . . . perhaps you can guess."

Jessamine tapped one of the drizzle-touched posts of the river barricade, nonchalantly turning the open envelope between her fingers. The river flowed past at her side, turning lazily in the inlet beside Dunwall Tower's great cliffs. Delilah, twirling her umbrella between careful fingers, chuckled shyly. "I—well I'm sure I don't know, my Lady," she said, but even as the girl spoke Jessamine could see her eyes rising to the gray sky, helpless in the face of a mystery. "Perhaps a request for your presence at an important meeting?"

Jessamine laughed at that, turning the envelope over and looking at the broken seal. "Not exactly."

"Maybe a marriage proposal?" Delilah tried. "Or another letter from the Ambassador?"

One of which she would infinitely prefer over the other, Jessamine thought, and shook her head. "Neither," she said, resting the neck of her umbrella against her shoulder and extracting the letter. "An invitation to a costumed ball," she said, adding an appropriate dose of sarcastic pomp as she read the intricate script, "at the estate of Carmine one fortnight hence. I suspect it will be a proper bore."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true!" Delilah replied, and when Jessamine glanced back she had a dreamy look about her, lips quirked and eyes layered with a thoughtful mist. "I have always wanted to attend a party like that, and by one of the great families. Is it true they have drink for all over the world, and ship in exotic beasts to entertain the guests?"

"Only on occasion," Jessamine said (neglecting to mention what the poor things were often purposed for in the cellars). She slipped the invitation back into the envelope, pressing at the bronze-colored wax. "But I swear to you it's all truly insipid. Barely a soul worth talking to. You're not missing a thing."

"Does that mean you won't be attending, my lady?" Delilah asked, and there was a hint of concern to her voice, a small nervousness in the teeth at her lip and the widening of her eyes. It used to worry Jessamine more to see that face, but as the weeks passed she supposed she had grown accustomed to it.

"I can't say I'm interested, no," she answered, slowing her steps and turning to the pair of guards following silently a few meters behind. "I've had my fill of these sorts of things."

"Oh, my lady, but you must!" Delilah pressed as Jessamine passed the letter to one of the men. "If—if I may. Perhaps it is not my place to say, but . . . is it not important for an Empress to be seen by her people? To make allies and friends?"

Jessamine laughed despite herself and looked toward the river, where invisible raindrops pricked the surface of the slow-moving water. "You sound like father's advisors," she said, then realized her words might have come out harsher than intended; she could practically feel Delilah shrinking at her side, going quiet like a chastised pup. She turned, smiling apologetically. "I promise you, I know exactly how it will go," she said, looking up to the sky and calling up the myriad of courtly events that had come before, gesturing with her free hand. "The night will be filled with proposals of marriage by men I have never met, some on behalf of themselves, some for their sons, and some pretending to be one when they are clearly the other. There will be no one worth talking to, as no one will discuss anything more interesting than this poor fashion choice or that scandal or how boring the party is. If I _do_ find someone worth carrying on a conversation with, I'll be pulled away in an instant, because no one wants their rival becoming friendly with _the Empress_. In the end I'll return home with nothing but aching feet to show for my time."

She breathed in the humid river air, filling the space drained by her speech, and cocked her head with a reassuring smile. "You're infinitely better company than any of them."

The far-away expression on Delilah's face (full of something Jessamine couldn't quite identify, mouth a flat line and eyes gone thin, but before she could think on it more—) changed in an instant, her eyes going wide and a blush creeping along her cheeks. "Oh," she said, her own smile coming back into place. "You flatter me, my lady."

"Not at all," she said. It was true: despite her shyness and tendency to fervently apologize for the smallest disagreements, Delilah was an apt conversationalist, and knew a surprising amount about art and literature, even something of the natural sciences. Jessamine half suspected the girl was being tutored in secret—she doubted the baking trade, which left patches of flour on her hands and clothes no matter how hard she tried to remove it all, gave her such knowledge.

Jessamine looked out at the river again, at the houses and markets buried in summer mist, spun drops of water from her umbrella and reached out to catch them. "Perhaps you and I can spend the evening together instead," she said absently. "It would be much better company. Maybe invite Sokolov as a thank you for introducing us—though I'm certain he wouldn't take it properly."

It was a few moments before she realized the steps beside hers had gone quiet. Turning, she found Delilah drifting to a stop in the middle of the path, hands wringing in her sleeves and eyes downcast. The guards approached, giving her a peculiar look, and Jessamine could feel the same expression turning her face. "Delilah?" she said uncertainly.

Delilah hovered in silence a moment longer, her umbrella casting strange shadows over her face. Then, just as quickly as she had fallen still, she snapped back up like a tin toy, her movements and voice jerky as her face tinged crimson. "A-apologies, my lady," she said, walking swiftly to catch up. "I, I felt ill suddenly. I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry, "Jessamine said, perhaps still uncertain as they took up their pace again. "Have you eaten well today? Perhaps we should get back for lunch."

"Maybe," Delilah agreed, though even more quiet than usual, with a hint of something resigned. Jessamine looked her up and down, watched her for weakness as they turned back. She struck up conversation as they passed the guards (about the _weather_ of all things, but at least it was simple enough), goaded her friend into a quiet smile or two—and as they talked, she glanced to the river, and wondered.

\---

". . . and though Uritski was favored for victory due superior numbers and soldiers with more intensive training," Jessamine said, eyes narrowed in concentration as she ran a finger along the written lines, tapping the critical piece of information when she spotted it, "Kostokov used weather patterns to his advantage, staging a false retreat to lead the greater army into the wastes. Their numbers were quartered, allowing the Conqueror to claim victory some months later."

"Precisely," Sokolov said from the opposite side of the table, his own books lying untouched. "And by what means did Kostokov determine the approach of suitable weather patterns?"

Jessamine paused to think, thumbing through the pages thoughtfully. "Celestial readings," she said after  a moment, "and seasonal almanacs."

"One decidedly more than the other," Sokolov noted. "The written word is slow to change. A proper reading will reveal even the most unpredictable alterations in the earthly humors before they occur."

"And the almanacs helped him predict the _typical_ changing of the seasons, rather than relying on chance occurrence," Jessamine retorted, tapping a page deftly.

"It is not so difficult to remember what month brings cold."

"Apparently it is difficult in the midst of war."

"Hmm," Sokolov said, sitting back in his chair. "Perhaps."

The library, doors thrown open to let in what light the summer rains did not snuff, stood silently around their reading table, a battlefield of books and marked paper between them. _A History of Tyvia, Volume V_ sat open atop a copy of _Star Reading for Beginners,_ and she adjusted _Great Battles of the Empire of Isles_ in her arms.

"And of course," he said, "don't forget that Kostokov the Conqueror was able to supplement his armies."

"With criminals!" Jessamine replied, voice tinged with the offense of it. "He razed more towns than he unified with them."

"And yet united they stand," Sokolov countered. "It is the land that matters. Another town can be built eventually."

"It isn't the ground _or_ the buildings that should be the greatest concern," she retorted.

"Ground and buildings," he repeated slowly, chuckled under his breath. "You see the world in an interesting way, Lady Jessamine."

Jessamine sat back in her chair, pointedly crossing her arms and raising a defiant chin.

"Though I suppose you've taken the point of the discussion," Sokolov finally conceded, shifting forward to lean against the table. "Perhaps without drawing the desired conclusion, but I suppose it will suffice."

A small, smug grin pulled at Jessamine's lips, and she silently accepted her victory. They were hard-won and rarely complete, but she'd learned to be satisfied with vague dismissal. It spoke of concession where he would not.

"I believe a recess is in order," he said, pushing his chair out. "Shall we, my lady?"

"Doesn't recessing mean I have the pleasure of _leaving_ your company?" she replied, nonchalant as she gathered her notes.

"One of us is far too interesting for that," Sokolov replied smartly. "I'll leave it up to you to decide who."

Jessamine rolled her eyes, but could not stop her smile. "You go ahead," she said, leaning back and casually leafing through the pages of her book. "I'd best prepare myself for another battle of the minds if I'm to compete, shouldn't I?"

Sokolov shrugged, but bowed to the shoulders in that relaxed way of his. "Practice can only do so much, my lady," he said with a smirk. He turned and strolled for the library door, too quick to catch her exasperated puff of breath and turn of lip.

She returned to the book in her arms, licked a finger and thumbed inattentively through paragraphs on the Battle of the Yaro Wastes and the Siege of Meya, paid little attention to the many-chaptered section on the Gristol-Morley War. Sokolov would never admit to defeat, she thought absently, had not once in the weeks since their tutoring sessions had begun. There was always a debate, few assertions gone unchallenged—how she had loathed it at first, the combativeness of every lesson. But she had grown used to it with time, and despite her objections, she found she remembered her study much clearer after a round of debate. She wasn't sure that was Sokolov's true intent—she suspected he just liked to be right. Still, it was certainly more interesting than piano lessons, and eons better the Stricture and etiquette sessions she was forced to attend as a child. She would take Sokolov's stubbornness over _that_ any day.

Not that great battles were her favorite subject. When Sokolov returned, his footsteps echoing in the quiet of the great room, she was thumbing through a book pulled from his side of the table, a laboriously thick tome with _Dark of Heart—Bestiary, Botany, and Topography of the Outer Lands_ scrawled across the cover.

"Will you be lecturing on this at the Academy?" she asked, squinting at diagrams of animals she had never seen before—insects with multi-sectioned bodies, birds with jaggedly toothed beaks, great cat-like creatures with swirls and stripes imprinted on their fur.

"In a fashion," he answered, settling into his chair and resting his arms on the table. "The prodigal son returns to plead aid for an expedition. The board unfortunately requires some convincing to part with their funds."

"You are quite the convincing man, I'm sure," she said, running her fingers over a sketch of a plant with curling red vines and what looked to be fangs protruding from its flowers.

"If a certain future Empress could be _convinced_ to finance the affair, it would save me quite the effort."

"Oh, surely," she answered with a quirked lip. "Now if only you could find such a person."

"Indeed," Sokolov replied, leaning back and turning a thoughtful gaze toward the  ceiling. "It will be many years of preparation, but you can't rush exploration as effectively as you can rush genius."

"I envy you," Jessamine said with a wistful sigh, turning to a double-paged map of the great continent, the Isles dwarfed beside. "The most adventure I can expect in the near future is navigating the waters of court. Equally perilous with none of the thrill."

"Ah, but the trivialities of noble life are so _fascinating_ , aren't they?" he said with a smirk. "You might hear about such-and-his new land holdings, or perhaps even learn who's been bedding the milkmaids. Quite riveting, I'm sure."

"You sound like Delilah," Jessamine answered, waving a hand. "Or you would if you were serious. I've tried to tell her how useless these things are, but she's so fascinated."

"It seems you've yet to impress upon her the of the vanity of the aristocracy. And you've had so long to do it."

Jessamine chuckled, shaking her head and absently turning a page. (She found a sketch of a whale there, curling tentacles protruding from the sides of its jaw.) "I'll convince her in time. Or if not I, someone else."

Sokolov hummed his acknowledgement and folded his arms, and when she looked up she saw his eyes closed to the world. She felt instantly inclined to note his laziness, warn that the Kaldwin purse strings could tighten in the face of a sleeping man and he would never know. However, she felt kind as she remembered this morning's river walk, chuckled under her breath. "I really must thank you for introducing us," she said. "I could not have known we would get on so well."

"How do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, she is a bit quiet, but still some of the best company I've had here in years. It's good to have someone to talk to in the day-to-day who isn't Marta." She smiled down at the book, shaking her head lightly. "You really should take the compliment—it's not often you get such credit from me."

"That is true," Sokolov answered slowly, chair creaking as he moved. "But I did not introduce you."

"Of course you did," she replied flippantly. "The evening you came to apologize to me and brought that awful brandy? Don't tell me you've already forgotten! It's barely been two months. Where is that genius memory of yours?"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, my lady," he said, and the lack of humor in his voice made her raise her eyes. "I didn't introduce you."

Jessamine sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Let us introduce _ourselves_ , then."

"Delilah claims you already knew each other," he said.

She stopped mid-motion, eyebrow slowly rising as she gave him a peculiar look. "What do you mean?"

"Simply what I say," he said. He seemed far less casual now, looking at her intently over his fingers like she was some subject to be observed. "Delilah told me you've known each other for quite some time. Since you were children, in fact." He cleared his throat, rubbing his wooly chin. "I had not imagined you would disagree."

Eyes slowly narrowing, Jessamine peered at him, lips twisting into a frown. "I somehow doubt Delilah said that,” she replied, tapping her fingers against the cover of a book, "as I distinctly remember having just met her. That confuses your claim some, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," Sokolov answered.

Jessamine's nostrils flared. She scanned his face, looking for the slightest hint of amusement or mistruth—she found nothing, but that meant about as much. If there was one thing of which Sokolov was a master, it was the art of persuasion, and she would not be so easily tricked.

"The last friend I had here was Corvo," she said with certainty, a shrug to mark her calm indifference. "And few before. I can't say I left the Tower much as a child."

"Few?" Sokolov pressed, tilting his head forward to look at her from beneath his ample brows.

She sighed mightily, shutting the book before her and pushing it back toward him. "Now you're just being difficult. I suggest we get back to the lesson."

"Humor me a moment," Sokolov said, putting a hand on the tome and holding it in place.

"Yes," she answered in exasperation. "Yes, there were children I played with when I was very young. But they are all gone now, and I barely remember them."

Sokolov's eyebrows rose quite deliberately, as if that were response enough itself. Jessamine—stars help her—sputtered slightly, then shook her head. "That was nearly twenty years ago," she said. "Even if it were true, I daresay _she_ wouldn't remember it either."

 He nodded—slowly, deliberately. Jessamine leaned closer, question in the high rise of her own brow, asking if he was finally satisfied, if they could get back to their study—

"Lady Jessamine," he said pointedly, "I think you forget who you are."

A long moment of quiet passed—with Sokolov, to his credit, never breaking her gaze—as his words touched down on her like snow. "I—I hardly think . . ." she managed, before trailing into silence. She worried her lip irritably, that frost melting into her skin.

A few moments longer and Sokolov, clearing his throat, suggested they return to the lesson. She agreed with a nod, turning to the hound-eared page on the unification on the southern lands of Tyvia and its first diplomatic encounters with Gristol, and saw none of it. In place of the maps, marks of advancement and shifting borders, she hovered on a place of barely discernible memories, buried in fog.

\---

"Marta," Jessamine started, tapping the end of her pen absently against the desk.

"Yes, my lady?" Marta answered just as mindfully, plucking at a black sleeve in the depths of Jessamine's wardrobe, murmuring and tuting.

"When I was young," Jessamine said carefully, curling the edge of some side-laid parchment, " _very_ young, did I have playmates? I feel as though I did."

"Oh, of course." Marta pulled a red waistcoat from the cluster, brushing at some slight wrinkle; Jessamine wasn't sure if the look of thoughtfulness on her face was for the question, or the fabric. "Though I'm surprised you remember, my lady, small as you were."

"Who were they?" Jessamine asked with an anxious twiddling of the pen between her fingers. (Her letter to Corvo, more successfully written than anything else she had attempted this afternoon, sat half finished beneath, and under that, glimpses of _preparations_ and _final arrangements_ in his short, scratching hand.)

"Children of servants, as I recall," Marta answered as she replaced the waistcoat and continued her search. "Little ones a mite too young to leave their mothers or sisters. Some common children too. Caused a stir in noble houses as I heard, but the Emperor was kind about it."

"And," Jessamine said slowly, looking to the open door, to the dimming light of the windows, away--"were any of them named Delilah?"

"The baker's girl?" Marta asked, the shuffling of the clothing going quiet as she glanced Jessamine’s direction. She grew quiet, murmuring to herself—" _Was she the one_ — _ill sister_ " and " _yes, then the baker_ —"

"By the stars," she said with a chuckle of realization, "I think that _is_ her." She reached heedlessly back into the wardrobe to return to her task—Jessamine felt a twinge in her gut, a twist in her lip.

"I scarcely remember them, or her," she said, eyes dropping to the desk.

"Well, you visited the south islands for quite some time at that age. I know you must remember _that_ ," Marta answered, as chipper as if she heard nothing of Jessamine’s tone. "They had taken to apprenticeships by the time you returned, and you to schooling. It is not so strange that you don't remember."

"Then how does Delilah?" Jessamine asked. "Sokolov said she remembers us as friends"—she pretended not to hear Marta's slight chuckle, which she was surely supposed to miss—"but we were barely children then. How could she?"

"Well," Marta answered, peering a bit longer at a purple cardigan and finding some perceptible flaw with it, pulling it from the mass, "you are the future Empress, my lady." With a click, she closed the wardrobe, wrapped the violet cloth over her arm.

Jessamine stared after Marta as the woman excused herself, murmuring about which seamstresses were on hand this evening and disappearing down the hall. Jessamine's eyes stayed on the door a long moment, hovering in the emptiness there, before slowly falling to the blankness of parchment.

\---

_—grow more ambitious with each passing session, though I am pleased to say his efforts have become less brazen in the past few weeks. He seems to have acquiesced to the fact that I am his tutee, rather than his disciple. Discussions with him have proven fruitful, and his personality tolerable on most occasions, so he is not so trying in small doses._

_It also seems that I have become acquainted with a long lost friend, a baker's apprentice by the name of Delilah, though until recently I could not ha_

The tip of her pen caught on the tail of the _a_ , hovering, pressing for what was to come next. Jessamine let out an irritable puff of breath, willing _something_ to rise to mind; she found an inkblot forming on the paper for her answer.

The fire in the hearth burned brightly, a reading lamp spilling soft yellow light to puddle on the paper, lighting scratches and swirls meant for Corvo's eyes. But the right words hid from her, and she was uncertain with what she did manage to write—she glanced to the stack of fresh sheets on the side table, a sense of unease pricking at her like some bothersome insect. She reached for it, then paused, sighed, set the letter aside. She took up a book ( _Call to the Spheres_ , the second of the trilogy) from a short pile at her feet, tried to focus there to clear her head. Within minutes, she found herself reading the same line three times.

Just as she was dropping the book into her lap, the back of her head hitting the chair as she huffed in frustration, a knock came at the parlor door.

"Come in," she called resignedly, closing the book with a _tap_. She heard the click of the hinges before the words had left her mouth, and when she turned, she found Cole looking at her from the doorway—arms casually folded, red uniform coat traded for informal evening blue.

"Your father was asking after you," he said.

"Oh?" she asked, turning in her seat, curling her knees over the chair’s stiff arm.

"He feels you were quiet at dinner," Cole said, leaning against the doorframe. "Taken to bed by now, like most folks, or he would've come himself. He asked that someone check on you."

"And you so kindly volunteered?" she said, chuckling lightly.

Cole shrugged in answer. "Couldn't find Marta," he said, brushing a hand over his hair. "So I supposed I'd make a suitable replacement. 'Course, if this is a"—he paused a long moment, seemed to ponder as he cleared his throat—"lady's problem, I can look harder."

Jessamine's lip dropped, and as her eyes swiftly narrowed a grin took his mouth, a chortle tumbling from it. "Kidding," he said with a wave of his hand.

Jessamine rolled her eyes, let out a long-suffering sigh. "When _aren't_ you?" she said, rubbing her face like a tired old man. (Paused, shook herself mentally, purposefully didn't think on the answer.) Shaking her head, she let her heels drop to the floor, resting her cheek against the chairback. "I'm fine, Cole," she said. "Truly."

Cole nodded, and then proceeded not to move, gaze drifting languidly about the room. His shoulders shifted as he seemed to settle in—she half-expected him to pull a carving from his pocket and take up his knife.

"It is good of father to worry," she went on, "but he has enough to concern himself with. He needn't worry about me."

"He will," Cole answered as he gazed into the fire, a dull orange glow spreading across the leather of his patch. "Whether he needs to or not."

Jessamine looked into the fire as well, as if some magic of great mutual interest lay there, hovering in the crackle-cut silence. She thought to dismiss him, give him a final reassurance before sending him on his way. But instead, something different drifted from her mouth.

"Cole," she said. "Am I odd?"

She heard him shift against the frame, and even with her back turned she could all but sense the dubious rise of his eyebrow, the downturn of his lips. "That's quite the question," he said. "What put it on your mind?"

"It's just," Jessamine said cautiously, trying to think how to explain—a difficult task, as she hadn’t yet explained it to herself—"it seems I forgot someone. Someone who used to be a friend, when we were small."

"Oh?" said Cole, and to her surprise, she heard him chuckle. "I know you haven't forgotten Corvo."

"No!" Jessamine said, turning to look at him with narrowed eyes. "No, I have not."

Cole nodded his relinquishment, lifting his hands to show the same (though she caught that hint of a smile, one she understood with deepest irritation) as she turned away. "If you don't want to listen, I don't want to talk."

"My apologies," he said, and though there was little remorse in his voice, she found no derision, either. "Please, go on."

Jessamine kept purposefully silent a few moments more, plucking anxiously at the fabric of her trousers. "This friend of mine works in Dunwall Tower,”  she said haltingly. “Marta says we used to play together, before I went to Serkonos with father. But I haven't seen her in so long, I forgot her."

"That's not so strange," Cole said, almost reassuring, if that was anything he was adept at conveying. "Children have the memory of hagfish. You can't be expected to remember something like that in your finer years."

"But _she_ remembers," Jessamine answered, fingers curling at her knees. "She remembers us being friends, and I don’t."

She could nearly hear Cole's shrug, knew and dreaded what he would say before it left his mouth. "You are the future Empress," he said, and she felt a twinge in her gut. "It would be difficult for a peasant not to remember."

"So that's an excuse then?" Jessamine snapped, more harshly as she meant to but just as much as she felt. She turned around in her chair, putting her back to him.

Silence answered her, broken only by the crackling off the fire, the soft shift of paper as she inadvertently brushed the stack with her elbow. It dragged on, Cole as quiet and unmoving as stone. Jessamine slowly wove her fingers together, pressing them to her forehead. "I have to make it up to her," she said. "Somehow."

"Well," Cole answered, and she heard the scrape of his boots on the floor as he stood straight, "it seems you already had the thought in mind. Not that I'll be much help. I've never been good at such things."

She grinned slightly, tapping her fingers against her forehead. He certainly wasn't wrong.

"You'll think of something," he said, heavy footfalls softened against the rug. "You're a clever girl. Just don't wind yourself too tight over it."

Something about his quiet this time compelled her to turn—perhaps to see him out as he moved past the frame. He looked to her once more, gave her a smile. "You've already been more thoughtful in five minutes than most of court is in their whole lives. Remember that."

She couldn't help her own soft grin as she bid him goodnight; he bowed and closed the doors behind him, disappearing in the night-dark of the hall. Sighing tiredly in the new quiet, she dragged her knees back up to her chest as she gazed into the fire. She tried to think of what to offer Delilah in apology—it wouldn't be difficult, if she was such a _clever girl_ , right?—and found her brain fogged with near-sleep. Her mouth quirked as her mind drifted, thoughts of a letter falling away to dream-like pictures of Pandyssian beasts, and on Cole's words as she vainly tried to stay awake. He would get himself in trouble one day, she thought with a quiet chuckle, if any of the other noble families learned how he spoke of them, though perhaps as Royal Protector he had no fear . . .

She blinked slowly at the blissfully warm fire. Court, letters, a beast or two . . .

Her eyes grew wide, back straightening, brain pressing out the clutter and beginning to whirl. The people at Court. _The people at Court!_

Frantically, she jumped from her seat, legs still wobbly with sleep but obeying. She doused the fire and scrambled to gather her things, dashed through the night-quiet to her room. She found the candles lit, nearly burned to their metal trays, and set her things down, digging through the papers on her desk.

Beneath layers of parchment, forgotten until now, she found a hint of bronze glinting in the light.

\---

Jessamine could guess by the cook's bewildered expression and halting greeting that the staff weren’t expecting to see her here. She grinned in the face of it, wiping her brow slightly in the heat of burbling pots and hot ovens, fogging windows pouring gray, early morning light into every busy corner of the kitchens. "Is Delilah here?" she asked pleasantly.

The cook pointed to a bank of stoves behind the partition wall ( _your Highness_ this and _your Ladyship_ that) and Jessamine curtsied her thanks, passing carefully through the busy crowd of staff. Coming around the corner, she spotted Delilah at a nearby countertop wrist-deep in dough, kneading with deepest concentration. Her hair was pulled back with a blotted kerchief to cover it, arms and apron and face dusted with powdery patches of flour. Still, there was no mistaking her, and as Jessamine approached the girl lifted her face, nearly dropping the ball of dough.

"M-my lady?" she yelped, frantic hands moving to dust off her apron. Jessamine couldn't help her laugh; she smothered it in a palm, and as Delilah folded her arms and gripped her elbows, stammering, "Wh-what—I mean, my lady, why—?" Jessamine lifted the Carmine invitation between two fingers.

"I thought I might attend the ball after all," she said, couldn't contain her smile as Delilah grew dazedly silent, "but I can hardly go alone. Might you be willing to attend with me, Miss Delilah? We'll have to get you a costume, of course."

There was a moment when Delilah stood stock still, even her face frozen, and Jessamine swore the whole kitchen seemed less noisy. Then the girl's eyes grew to the size of serving platters, a gasp in her mouth as her hands flew to her face, smearing flour over her cheeks. "Of-of course!" she said, and Jessamine swore there was a bit of water at the corners of her eyes not from the stove pots. "Of course, my lady!"

Jessamine passed her friend the invitation—lightness in her chest and new noise taking the kitchen as Delilah fervently pulled the letter open—and thought, perhaps, this one would be better, with a friend at her side.

\---

_Her Imperial Highness Jessamine Kaldwin_

_and Miss Delilah Copperspoon_

_accept with pleasure_

_the kind invitation of the Lord and Lady Frederick Carmine_

_on the fifth day of the Month of Seeds._

 


	8. A Carmine Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessamine and Delilah arrive at the Carmine estate for an evening of fun - but not everything is at it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone, and happy new chapter! Hopefully it's worth the short hiatus, and please enjoy!

She set the intimidating tome on the seamstress' work table, gesturing at the illustration within, and watched the woman's brows rise.

"You—you are certain, Your Excellency?" the seamstress said, clearing her throat as her eyes rose to Jessamine's face. Jessamine, smiling patiently, nodded.

"This precisely," she said, tapping a finger against the paper. "Styled, of course. And this." Pulling over a much thinner field manual and opening to a dog-eared page, she spread it on the table, hands framing the drawing within. "For the second outfit. Can you do it?"

The seamstress stammered a moment, looking at the new page with only slightly less trepidation. She turned to the older clothier at her side—the second squinted at the books, tapping her fingers against the younger's chair-back, calmer but with a hint of that same intimidation. The room seemed to hover on her silent evaluation, five other sets of eyes turned from surrounding work stations.

The older seamstress lifted her eyes. Jessamine gave the woman her calmest, most winning smile.

"It will take time," the woman said, her gaze dropping to the page as if sketching it out in her mind.

"I will need them in a week's time," Jessamine replied.

The whole of the room seemed to gasp, eyes shot up to stare at her in disbelief. Jessamine answered with an even larger grin.

\---

She was not particularly surprised when, in the wake of her announcement, the scrapping of silverware briefly paused.

"The Carmines," her father responded after a moment, the note of surprise in his voice only just softened. "Well . . . that is a change of pace, my dear."

Cole did a poor job of hiding his snort, grinning and shaking his head as he went back to his eel stew. "Truly," he said. "Last I remember, you had a few choice things to say about House Carmine."

Rolling her eyes, Jessamine made a face at Cole before returning to her buttered sprouts. Perhaps the eldest son of the Carmine family was a boorish sort. Perhaps she had made some unflattering remarks about him when she had received a letter proposing marriage from the family some years back. Was she to be held to such comments her entire life? (And regardless, with a mansion the size of the Carmines', it would not be difficult to avoid him for the entirety of the evening . . .)

"I thought it would be wise to socialize with some of my peers," she answered pointedly in Cole's direction. "They will one day make up Parliament. It seems wise to develop some friendly associations."

Cole turned his head enough to glimpse her with his good eye, _aah_ ing before taking another bite of stew. She squinted at him, wondering if he believed her— _as he should_ , she thought. It was partially true, after all.

"Well," her father said, accepting a glass of wine from a servant, "if you are willing, my dear, I believe that is a fine idea. You must regale me with tales of the night when you return." He raised a hand to the server, gesturing to Jessamine and Cole on either side of the table. "A bit of wine for Lord Protector Griggs and my daughter," he said, and smiled at Jessamine's raised eyebrows. "If you are to act as a statesman, you might wish to practice drinking like one."

Jessamine's lip dropped, and she heard Cole chuckling as he took a glass from the server and lifted it. She, with a moment to recover and a growing smile, did the same. "To health and happiness," her father said, raising his own.

"To the Kaldwins," Cole added. "Wise fools all."

Jessamine snorted, but swallowed it in time for an elegant clink of glasses.

\---

She felt as if her eyes had been closed for a small eternity, stylists and coiffeurs bustling around her like anxious birds, before the crowd quietly stepped back and she was asked to open her eyes.

Blinking in the sudden light, Jessamine let her eyes adjust, taking in the patterns of orange and black as splotches of color in the mirror. Finer details began to emerge, the hard cut of black lines and stripes, the softness of white powder around her eyes. Perhaps she stared a moment too long, a hand delicately rising to touch the odd shape of her hair; the women around her seemed to shuffle nervously, one small voice rising in the quiet. "Does it please you, your Excellency?"

Slowly, she stood, two of the coiffeurs quickly taking her by the hands to help her up. She spread her arms, her outfit flowing out around her, and turned in a circle to see it in full. At the end of her pirouette she clapped her hands together, smiling grandly. "Perfect!" she said. She felt a sigh of relief pass through the room as she grinned into the mirror, at a face she barely recognized as her own. If she had been worried about the evening before, she was giddy now—how odd that just a bit of dress could cause so much excitement.

"Delilah?" she said feeling the sway of her flowing sleeves and the fur around her neck as she turned. She would have to get used to that. "Are you finished?"

"Um, yes?" came Delilah's voice, soft and nervous, from behind the red and cream screen opposite Jessamine's own. (The poor girl had probably never been fussed over this way, Jessamine realized.)

"Well, let me see!" Jessamine called and crossed the room, carefully avoiding the train that draped from the center of her back. It would be good practice for the evening. "Come on!"

There was a bit more shuffling and frantic murmuring amongst Delilah's dressers, and Jessamine caught a glimpse of the girl past the screen's edge—gloved hands, pointed shoes, a hint of a vast cloth petal. Delilah's eyes were downcast when she finally emerged, slowly spreading her arms to her sides. "How is this, my lady?"

Jessamine moved to cover her face in wonder, but thought better of it when she sensed the stylists tensing at her back. Instead, she threw her own hands out, fingers spread wide. "You're gorgeous."

Delilah's eyes rose like the sun and she brightened the same, a hint of pink tingeing her powdered and painted face. "You as well, my lady."

"Come on then," Jessamine said as two more servants approached, each with a pair of dress shoes on a cushion—and, beside those, intricately painted masks. Jessamine plucked up hers, holding the mask over her face with her most mischievous smile. "Every party needs an enigma, don't you think?"

\---

The Estate District was already dark by the time their carriage took to its cobbled streets, shadowy workmen lifting oil-soaked poles to light the street lanterns. Even with lights hung over doorways and the glow from front windows lighting the district there was little to see, at least in Jessamine's mind—mansions no larger or more elegant than Dunwall Tower, few clusters of people daring the dark at the district's edge. Yet Delilah seems to marvel at it, her gaze locked on the carriage window, head turning with each new thing that caught her eye.

"Have you been to the Estate District before?" Jessamine asked.

"Not particularly, my lady," Delilah answered, rubbing at her clothed wrists. "I—I was here once, while we were searching for a place for me to apprentice. The Cochran family." She seemed to ponder that, her face obscured by the dark, before shaking her head. "They weren't interested in taking on a child."

"Their loss is our gain," Jessamine said, chuckling and twirling her mask by the stem. "And yours, I think. I don't expect you would have met Sokolov in employ there."

"I—I suppose not," Delilah stammered, and Jessamine saw the tap of her fingers against her knees by the light of a passing lamp. "And what about you, my lady? Surely you've spent much time here."

"Less than you would think," Jessamine answered, looking out the window as their carriage clattered over a canal bridge, "but more that I'd care to. I visited much more the year I was introduced at court, but . . ."

She trailed off, watching as the passing crowds grew larger and better dressed. She sensed eyes on her, and glanced over to see Delilah, hands folded in her lap as she waited expectantly. "Let's just say," Jessamine with a wry smile and a shake of her head, "that a party starts to becoming boring when you've attended it three times or more."

Delilah stared a moment, her expression only discernible when another lantern passed—brows knitted, her gaze turned toward her knees, fingers curled in the fabric. Feeling a twinge run through her, Jessamine leaned over, tapping her friend's shoulder. "But I'm sure this one will be much better," she said with a wry smile. "Perhaps we can find you a husband this evening . . ."

A sudden light cast itself into the carriage, streaking across the seats and walls and lighting on Delilah's face, which had turned a deep crimson. "N-no my lady I—I don't think—!"

In her peals of laughter and Delilah's stuttered embarrassment, neither noticed the carriage glide to a stop until the door clicked open. Past the footman glowed Carmine manor, towering over the street at the apex of diverging staircases—she could see shadows besetting the mansion's iron garden fence, silhouettes of a plethora of guests. Jessamine heard Delilah gasp lightly, turned to see something like reverence in the girl's wide eyes. Grinning, Jessamine took her by the hand like a proper companion. "Remember," she whispered as she put her mask in place, "tonight you are not a Copperspoon, and I am not a Kaldwin. We'll leave them to invent the stories."

"Yes, my la—" Delilah started, stopped herself when Jessamine lifted her eyebrows behind her mask. "I mean—yes. All right."

Jessamine smiled, nodded and (when Delilah's own mask, purple and green with hints of painted blossoms, was properly over her eyes) guided them toward the carriage door and the waiting steward.

\---

Jessamine was used to the sensation of eyes on her, the light prickle she felt along the back of her neck as she and Delilah scaled the front steps. Over the years she had grown accustomed to knowing she was being watched, carefully observed for a slight break that one could slip through— _your highness_ in the midst of a different conversation, _majesty_ as she sought out a drink, _Our Lady Empress_ so powerfully misused as she tried to find a washroom.

But as she glanced about now, scanning the crowd of guests when they reached the elevated garden, it didn't feel the same. A glimpse behind her at the people filling the stairs found eyes that had turned away, mouths back to conversation that had occupied them before she passed. She felt a lightness in her chest, a grin taking her face.

"Oh my," Delilah said beside her, unable to hide the shiver of amazement in her voice. Through her eyes, Jessamine supposed, it must have been quite grand: dozens of elaborately costumed guests filled the garden, multicolored lanterns casting every shade and hue across the already vivid crowd. Jessamine could see a myriad of faces from the city's most prominent families—already she spotted pale Edward Clubberill flushed with drink, and bulbous Gregory Inchmouth slavering over the eldest (and perhaps most buxom) of the—was it Mulhare?—siblings. There were hats piled with exotic fruits, a cape sewn to resemble crimson wings, a tunic and headdress in the image of coiled snakes that _may_ have moved of its own accord just then.

Jessamine saw Delilah glance at her own outfit, the large pastel petals that reached from her hips to frame her shoulders and back, the green trousers beneath and the flowers that filled her hair. She seemed suddenly disappointed, her lips curling down; Jessamine reached over, stripes of orange and black and white twirling around her arms, and tapped the girl on the shoulder. "We've outdone them all," she whispered, giving her best cat-like grin to match the make-up. Delilah giggled behind a violet glove, and Jessamine took her by the arm, leading her to the grand entry.

After presenting their invitation to the doorman (who only gave them a brief second look, Jessamine thought happily), they stepped into the vast foyer, flanked by two blackwood staircases and filled with more eccentrically-dressed guests. A fountain stood at the room's center, propped on a short table, and Jessamine puzzled at the crowd gathered around it before realizing they were filling their glasses with the contents. No wonder the place seemed so merry.

"Um," Delilah started, hugging Jessamine's arm tighter. "Do you recognize anyone?"

"A few," Jessamine answered. "They aren't very well disguised." Craning her neck, she glanced around the room briefly before leaning in. "I think I see Mary Gogney over there—her family trades in . . . steel, I believe? As I understand they were a great asset in constructing father's bridge. And that looks to be Emma Swales over there, and—oh no, is that Morgan and Custis?"

"Friends of yours?" Delilah offered.

Jessamine couldn't help her sneer. "May I never be cursed with that misfortune."

"I don't suppose one of them has sent you a marriage proposal?" Delilah said with a sympathetic chuckle.

"I can't say," Jessamine replied, deadpan. "Father and I burned the last three letters they sent. Let's go this way, shall we?"

They walked with careful grace to an adjacent hallway, sliding past packs of guests crowding at its mouth. Pungent vapors reached them as they passed a smoking room, splashes of color as they skirted by the entrance of a gallery. Jessamine heard a trill of violins and flutes echoing in the hall, and as they turned a corner they found the corridor spilling into a grand ballroom: great chandeliers glittered overhead, purple banners embellished with the silver Carmine seal tumbling from the vaulted ceiling. Vibrant outfits swirled as rows of couples danced an elegant waltz and at least twice as many onlookers stood about, laughing and drinking.

Jessamine tugged on Delilah's arm, glancing at a blond gentleman to their right wearing blood ox horns. "He looks as if he might enjoy a dance, my dear," she whispered.

Delilah's cheeks went pink, and she clung tighter. "My la—don't tease!"

"You'd be striking!" Jessamine ribbed, edging them closer. "And he's certainly of good parentage."

Delilah anxiously pushed back, turning so she could pull Jessamine in the opposite directly. Jessamine snickered, tilted her head toward a tall brunet laughing uproariously with a group of older men. "Or him? He might be a Goodwyn with that height, and I've heard they're quite the _experts_ at dances from Morley—"

Out of the steady hum of conversation, the click and tap of heels on the dance floor and the peal of the music, a hint of talk caught her ear. She wasn't sure she had heard it properly at first, but her steps slowed all the same, pulling Delilah back where she sought to move faster. Past two gentlemen discussing their families' future business prospects in Cullero, she heard it again: "Jessamine Kaldwin? Are you certain?"

"Quite. It seems Edgar Carmine nearly jumped out of his boots when she accepted the invitation. Perhaps he thinks it will bring prestige back to the family name."

"Listen to this girl. You would think she was an Inchmouth or a Perth herself."

Eyebrow rising, Jessamine tightened her grip on Delilah's elbow and shifted slightly closer. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a group of two women and a man, circled together and speaking in tones that smacked of scandal.

"Not that you would recognize her anyway," said one of the women, wearing a hat adorned with a small flock's worth of long, purple feathers. "She'd be hard enough to spot even without a costume. I doubt more than a handful of the people here have seen her face, the way she keeps to that Tower."

"Or _is kept_ , perhaps," answered the man, wearing nothing more impressive than typical eveningwear, a gray strip of fabric over his eyes.

"Inciting a scandal, are we?"

"Don't pretend you haven't heard the same."

"I've heard tell she's quite striking." said the other woman, petite, wearing a ruffled pink party dress and full maroon mask. "Not a blemish or malformity, despite her parentage."

Jessamine stiffened. Her eyes narrowed at a space near the ceiling, her fingers curling around Delilah's wrist.

"What are you saying?" said the feather-woman. "It's not as though she's a _Sullivan_."

"No, but she is a Hadley on her mother's side, and we all know—"

"I've heard she's hideous, really."

They all turned toward where Jessamine stood, leaning over conspiratorially with eyes half-lidded. She nodded at them slightly, and all three leaned forward, seemingly without thought. "Hunched, with a bulbous nose and warts. Find the ugliest girl at the party, and you'll have your Jessamine Kaldwin."

The three gaped at her, the man clearing his throat anxiously, the woman in pink putting a hand over her hidden mouth. Jessamine turned away, moving with calculated elegance; she heard the group buzz into indistinct speech a moment later, and when she glanced down Delilah was giving her quite a similar look of astonishment.

"That was—" the girl whispered, seemed to grasp for words, and smiled a small thing despite herself. "That was cruel."

"Oh no, it was kind," Jessamine corrected, allowing her sneer only the corner of her lips. "It will give those simple minds something to talk about."

They wandered the ballroom, taking glasses of rose champagne from a table near the far wall, Jessamine needling Delilah with each potential dance partner she spotted. The girl finally agreed to dance with a slight blond man wearing a bloodhound's mask, both shifting and smiling shyly. Jessamine stood at the dance floor's edge, raising her eyebrows whenever the girl looked her way.

"Pardon me, my lady," came a voice at her side. She bristled, surprised at the sudden sound, then carefully smoothed it out and lifted her eyes. A white mask looked back at her, sculpted into a exaggerated and clownish grin. "I could not help but notice your lack of company. You are not here alone, I trust?"

Jessamine was sure it would have been easy to help that. She kept her serene and neutral smile in place, fiddling with the stem of her mask. "You are correct, good sir, I am not. My escort is merely engaged at the moment."

"Ah," the man answered, looking toward the dance floor. From this angle, she saw that his mask bled into another on the side of his face—this one bore a dramatic frown,  the wrinkles of each countenance connected by painted lines of blue and purple and deep maroon. "Well, it seems a crime for a lady as lovely as yourself to be left idle. May I have the pleasure of a dance?"

With an elegant turn he held out a hand and bowed, showing chestnut-red hair peeking past the mask's edge. She chuckled—perhaps it was a little charming—and shook her head. "My apologies, but I must decline. I expect my friend will be returning soon."

It was not an outright lie—Delilah was glancing over more frequently now, and the song did seem to be drawing to its end. However, before she could bid him goodnight, the man leaned closer, near enough for her to hear him murmur. "Would it change your mind if you noticed those gentlemen there have been observing you for some time?"

Jessamine's brows shot up before she could stop them; with greater grace, she glanced over her shoulder, following the man's nod. From the corner of her eye she spotted—oh, no—Julian Carmine, Gregory Inchmouth, and a fellow that looked like a slighter and more nervous version of the Pendleton brothers. The second had not sobered during the trek from the garden, and the eldest of the Carmine brothers looked as thickly formed and unpleasant as ever. As she looked toward the crowd she watched all three glance her way, talking amongst themselves before Inchmouth let out a bark of uproarious laughter. Her sneer was hard to press down.

When she turned back there must have been a hint of that displeasure still left on her face, for the man chuckled sympathetically. "The offer is still open, my lady."

"I'm in no need of protection, I assure you," she said.

"Oh, I am certain," the man replied. "But I supposed a dance with a more handsome gentleman would be preferable."

"How modest," she said, but couldn't help a small smile. "I suppose you are also an _incredible_ dancer."

"Trained by the best instructors in Gristol," he said, and gestured with his open hand. Another pause, a glance from the seams of his glove to that odd mask and back again, and she slowly put her fingers to his palm.

"I trust you noticed my sarcasm," she said as they walked into the dance floor, stopping beneath the great chandelier glowing gold with lamplight. "Or I hope you did. I would feel just awful otherwise."

"That's quite all right," he said as he rested a hand on her back. "I trust you noticed my mistruth."

"Schooled by the best instructors in Gristol?" she asked, following his lead he stepped back and brought her into a turn.

"Oh, no, that was right. The suggestion that I am a handsome man, however . . ."

"Well, I can't speak to that. Unless you actually are the spirit of frivolity," she said, gesturing at his mask.

  
"A learned lady," he replied, sounding impressed as their steps sped slightly, their movements smooth and flowing as they turned together.

 

"Schooled, at least," she answered. She released his shoulder, raising his arm to glide beneath it and turn back into his grip.

"And what of your visage, lady?" he asked as his hand returned to her shoulder blade. "I find it quite intriguing."

"A beast of Pandyssia. Something else uncovered in my learning. If only I could do the fangs justice."

She thought she heard a chuckle come from behind that mask, wondered what his hidden smile might look like as they drifted into silence. Splashes of color spun in her vision as they stepped and twirled, sending her spinning out and back. She pressed a hand to his chest—by accident, truly—before replacing it at his back with a quiet apology. He chuckled again, saying something that was drowned out by a sudden peel of the violins. She moved by tentative memory, but managed to match him movement for movement with little more than an opposing twitch.

"My lady?" he said, a hand sliding to her waist, and though she stiffened a moment she took his meaning quickly enough. She shifted her weight and pressed her hand against his shoulder, just in time to feel him lift her off the ground—a little gasp plucked at her, though if he heard he made no point of it as he set her down again.

She felt that prickle along her skin as the music slowed, the feeling of eyes on her back; however, as he let her glide to the edge of their reach and pulled her back, she didn't feel the compulsion to look, or mind. A different sensation held her, something tingling and anxious and much more pleasant as they drifted from each other's grasp.

"You make a fine partner, my lady," he said, bowing as the violins grew silent and a smattering of applause sounded through the room. "As talented as you are lovely."

Jessamine smiled, curtsying her own. "You are too kind."

"I don't suppose I could interest you in another song?" he said, his upturned palm inviting.

She felt her mouth curling despite her, an excited twirl in her stomach. He moved forward a bare inch, barely detectable—but in a place like this, where every turn of a champagne flute was a secret note, it betrayed him. Slowly she lifted her hand, fingers arching—then curling, pulling back as she remembered.

"I—" she started, paused, carefully smoothed out her reluctance, "I really must find my friend." As she spoke she turned, craning her neck to see past the crowd of shifting bodies moving from the dance floor. "I expect she'll be looking for me . . ."

She saw nothing at first, swirls of bright but unfamiliar cloth and light filling her vision—then, as if summoned by her words, a great violet petal slid into view. Delilah followed quickly, jostled as she pressed through the crowd, feverishly scanning the room. Jessamine's eyebrows rose; the girl looked positively animated, twisting and turning and biting her lip. Jessamine adjusted her mask and, with a heart heavier than she had expected, curtsied to the man. "It has been a pleasure, Mister Folly."

"The pleasure is mine," he said, taking her hand and kneeling to kiss it, moving his mask aside. She couldn't see anything past that lopsided veil, smiling up at her as it was, but as he slowly lifted his head he neglected to replace it—she found gray eyes looking up at her, a short and thin nose touched with a dusting of freckles, a pointed chin with a smile above it. "And you may call me William, if you prefer."

"William," she repeated, feeling the sound of it on her tongue and lips, ending with a lilt of curiosity.

"Perth," he finished knowingly. Ah, that _was_ familiar, Jessamine realized, if only slightly. One of the founding families, but an understated sort with nowhere near the infamy of the Carmines or Pendletons. Had she ever met one before?

He restored his mask to its proper place as he stood, a hint of his smile held in her mind. She could feel movement beside her, saw a hint of violet out of the corner of her eye. "Well then, I am pleased to have met you, William."

She curtsied a final time, and was just beginning to stand when he leaned over, just near enough to catch her attention. "And you as well, Lady Kaldwin," he whispered, muffled by the mask—Jessamine froze mid-step, nearly stumbling over her own train.

"What—" she stammered, careful composure faltering as she turned to face him again. She heard his chuckle, felt her cheeks darkening.

"My apologies. A lucky guess," he said, bowing his head as he stepped back. "May we meet again, my lady. You are quite the marvelous dancer."

With that, he was gone, quitting the floor just as pairs began to gather together and the pluck of violins filled the air anew. She must have been staring at the spot where he vanished; she felt Delilah lean into her side, murmuring, "Who was that?"

"William Perth, apparently," Jessamine said dazedly.

"Another proposal?"

Delilah's voice was soft enough to miss completely, though it shook Jessamine from her thoughts all the same. "No, no," she said, clearing her throat. "Just a dance. And how was yours?"

"Oh, it was lovely. He was quite good," Delilah answered, and Jessamine was surprised to feel herself being pulled from the dance floor. Glancing over, she saw that Delilah seemed to be fighting to contain a smile. Only when they had folded into the crowd did the other girl turn and take Jessamine by the hands, the grin taking face in full and sparkling with delight. "And he's invited us to a private gathering in the east wing! Both of us! Isn't that exciting?"

Jessamine felt the corners of her mouth turn down. "I—" she started. It might've been different during a soiree at Dunwall Tower, but here—she glanced back and forth at the myriad of masks, remembered stories from her first years at court. "I'm just not sure it's a good idea . . ."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be fun!" Delilah said, insistently gripping Jessamine's palms. "Come with me? Please?"

Jessamine opened her mouth to speak, felt the words fall away as her lips pressed together. Delilah's smile spread anew as she stepped back, lightly pulling Jessamine along.

"Just—just for a little while," Jessamine said uneasily as Delilah eagerly led the way.

\---

The thinning of the crowd did little for Jessamine's nerves as Delilah conducted them through wide double doors off the main hall. A blanket of eerie quiet seemed to fall on the corridor the longer they walked, and the occasional cracked doors spilling gold or red light into the hall were few and far between. Even the servants seemed to disperse, only a few nodding to them as they climb to the second floor and crossed the mezzanine.

They turned one final corner and a familiar bloodhound mask came to view, sipping wine outside a set of doors that conceded no hint of light. Only after he drained the glass did he notice them, thrusting it into the hands of a lone attending servant and bowing at their approach.

A hushed greeting and they were ushered through the dark doors, past invisible-black curtains to a room that wasn't much brighter. Jessamine blinked in the dimness; flickers of light began to emerge, a red-shaded reading lamp in the corner surrounded by barer candles throughout the rooms. The voices that had met them at once slowly linked to human shapes, cloaks and masks talking and laughing. Groups of them sat at a long cushioned bench that ringed the circular space; one crouched within a circle of candles at the center of the room, drawing an elaborate pattern on the floor in chalk.

"What is this?" Jessamine whispered, the bloodhound man gesturing to an empty seat near the door.

"I don't know," Delilah replied, sounding equally uncertain as they settled together.

Aimless chatter followed. Jessamine caught snippets of conversation around them—talk of the party, the fashions at court, something about _Ella_ or _Emma_ that she couldn't quite make out. The bloodhound man sat and talked with Delilah a moment, the girl laughing lightly and curling her fingers around Jessamine's own. After a time the door opened again and a servant was led in, head hanging. She joined the artist and they bent their heads together in quiet conversation, nervously glancing about.

Jessamine shifted uneasily. "Did he say anything?" she whispered, leaning as close as she could to Delilah's shoulder without mussing her own hair or assailing the girl's bodice.

"No," Delilah answered with a shake of her head. "Not really. Just that it would be very interesting."

Jessamine nodded, turning to where the artist had set down her chalk and was dusting her hands off on her trousers. "I'm glad you came with me," Delilah said, drawing Jessamine's attention back. "I would have never been brave enough to come alone."

Perhaps that would have been for the better, Jessamine thought. However, she quickly pushed the thought aside and chuckled her own. "Nor would I," she said. "I doubt I would have left the Tower without your company."

Delilah smiled shyly, eyes trailing to the floor, and there was a measure of pride there that she could not quite hide. Jessamine did hope to pull her out of that shell one day, that shyness that hid a great mind and kindness. Looking curtains draping from the ceiling, she wondered if they had been like this when they were younger, prompting each other to greater mischief. How would things be now, if . . . if she had not forgotten?

Jessamine squeezed Delilah's fingers, pulling the girl from her own absent reverie. "Delilah, I—"

"Ladies and lords," came a voice, booming in the presence of so many whispers. Jessamine turned swiftly as Delilah did the same, eyes falling on the bloodhound man where he stood beside the ring of candles with arms outspread. "Welcome to our delightful gathering. We are deeply pleased you could attend."

Another servant entered as he spoke, and Jessamine heard the door behind the curtain being locked with a _click_. "To distract from the more boring visitors in attendance this evening," the man said, a titter of amusement sweeping through the room, "we have prepared a diversion for our favorite guests. I do believe some of you have attended a séance before."

A few guests nodded, murmuring in agreement. Jessamine's eyebrows shot up.

"For those who have not," he went on, producing several small packets from within his dinner jacket, "you are in for a fine amusement. The secrets of your friends and enemies may be laid open for you tonight."

The entire room seemed to shift at that, their fellow attendees eagerly leaning in. Jessamine felt Delilah tilt forward.

The bloodhound man turned to the three servants sitting within the ring of light, their hands joined around the chalk design. The last to arrive hung her head, the others leaning in to whisper to her; they abruptly fell silent and straightened when the man placed a candle at their axis, pulling something Jessamine could not make out from a packet and placing it on the fire. A moment later, her nose wrinkled at the smell of burning hair. "Show us my br—" the man started, cleared his throat, "show us Julian Carmine, heir to the Carmine estate."

Hanging their heads and securing their grip, the three servants began to chant, something soft and indistinguishable—Jessamine thought it might not have been the common tongue. They lifted their faces as their voices grew louder, their connected hands rising and falling like waves, each movement more dramatic than the last. The flames of the candles seemed to shiver, and with a swift jerk those hands and heads fell—and an image appeared, liquid-like and vacillating, between them.

A gasp went through the room, Jessamine adding her own. There stood an image of Julian Carmine, mouth open and shouting at a man in a ludicrous hagfish mask. The man was shaking a fist in return, and a woman at his back yelled with equal ferocity. The image wavered and swam and changed, and Julian's fist connected with the man's veiled face, the front steps to Carmine manor just visible behind them. Excited chatter and gasps of shock filled the air as the picture changed again, the woman fallen to her knees as Julian descended with raised hand.

One of the servants let out a groan and slumped, the image vanishing as she pulled in heaving breaths. A murmur of disappointment swept through the assembled guests, and even with his mask, Jessamine could tell the look the bloodhound man leveled at the women was unkind.

"Unfortunately," he said calmly, "these displays can be taxing on the humors, and it is so hard to find good help these days."

A chuckle and call of agreement replaced the whispers. Jessamine expected to feel Delilah stiffen, see her face fall. Instead, the girl only leaned closer.

"Let us try again, shall we?" the man said, looking briefly to the servant regaining her breath before he placed another bit of hair on the flame. "Show us Mace Brimsley."

Again the chanting, the oscillating hands, the snap of movement, and an image appeared with a cry of delight from the guests. This time it was an older, plain-looking gentleman, his mask removed and a cigarette to his lips. A woman sat to one side of him on an ornate davenport, leaning over his lap to talk with a man on his other side. There was but the slightest hint of movement in the next image, Brimsley's head turned to face the man himself. More pictures of soundless conversation followed, and the crowd began to mutter restlessly.

Jessamine thought she saw Brimsley's hand sliding to his friend's knee before the bloodhound man waved dismissively. "Ah, the Brimsleys," he said as the picture vanished and the servants sighed deeply. "As interesting as an ox's hindquarters, and even less cheeky."

A bit of laughter answered him, though less enthusiastic than before. He seemed to sense it too and sifted vigorously through his packets, considering them. "If only we had something from Jessamine Kaldwin," he said in mock despair, and the guests guffawed. Jessamine felt a jolt run through her chest; Delilah leaned over, patting her hand and whispering, "It's just a bit of fun, they certainly mean no harm," before quickly turning back.

"Ah, here we are!" the man said in triumph, and as the servants gathered themselves again he placed another bit of hair on the candle. "Show us Esma, the youngest of lovely Boyles."

More murmuring, another thrust of hands—and an instant of stunned silence later Jessamine threw her hands over her face, felt it warm beneath her fingers as cries and whoops echoed through the room. Esma Boyle—blonde head thrown back and mouth open in a cry—sat astride the hips of a man cloaked in darkness, naked but for a crimson choker.

Raucous laughter split the space, a flurry of excited whispers and pointed fingers. _Here tonight!_ Jessamine heard from one side, and _engaged to be married?_ on the other. _Who is that?_ came from all around as the image changed, the man reaching to slide a finger through Esma's choker. _It must be Pen—no, no, look, the hands!_

As the image shifted again—him, pulling her down by the neck for a kiss—and the room burst into new peals of laughter, Jessamine turned and hid her eyes. She could feel her face burning, her eyes racing back and forth across the floor. This wasn't right—this was _awful_. How could—how could they do such a thing?

"Delilah," she breathed, grabbing the girl's hand once more, "I think we should go. Now."

But as Jessamine moved to stand, Delilah did not shift, her hand limp and sliding away. "Delilah!" Jessamine hissed as the girl's eyes stayed fixed on the spectacle, the rest of her leaning closer. Jessamine saw Delilah's gaze on the servants as much as the images, something like awe in the shining of her eyes—right before she slipped away, crouching down to kneel before the circle, like a child watching a marvelous puppet-show.

Jessamine blinked after her, put a hand over her own eyes and made to call her friend's name again—when a hand on her shoulder stopped the word in her throat.

"My lady," came a voice from behind her. She whirled in place to find the door-servant peering at her through a break in the black curtains. "Please, come with me."

"Why?" Jessamine whispered. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, my lady, just please," the servant said, something imploring in her voice.

Jessamine stared at her, brows furrowing, and glanced to the room's center. She could see the bloodhound man hissing in the ear of a servant as the illusion began to shiver, Delilah still attentively watching the show as vicious laughter permeated the room. "I must get my friend . . ."

"Please, my lady, it is—" the servant said, then sighed, eyes closed. When she spoke again she was leaning closer, even quieter than before. "Your Excellency, please. You must come with me."

Something settled in Jessamine's stomach like a stone. She barely noticed the looks that were cast in her direction as she stood and followed the servant from the room.

"What is it?" she asked as they strode down the hall, wrapping her train around her arm and trailing on the servant's quick-moving heels. "What's going on?"

The servant said nothing, head down as they descended the stairs from the mezzanine. Jessamine felt a flash of heat in her chest and a flaring of her nostrils. "I demand you answer me!"

The servant seemed to sink even lower, turning at the base of the stairs but not meeting Jessamine's eyes. "Please, my lady," she said, sounding small, "they will explain. Just here. Please."

Jessamine felt the heaviness inside her grow, questions bearing down, but silenced them as the servant led her through a side hall and down a set of steps to a hidden door. Cool evening air greeted them when the servant unlocked and opened it; Jessamine felt a stab of suspicion, and was just beginning to back away when a familiar voice met her ears. "Lady Jessamine!"

"Marta?" Jessamine called back, blinking in shock before descending the steps. That voice was heavy, watery even, and when Jessamine rushed out the door she found the attendant standing before a carriage, flanked by guards, her face red from streaming tears.

"Marta, what—"

"Lady Jessamine," Marta sobbed, holding a soaked kerchief to her face. "Please, you must come, now. Your father—!"

The world went quiet. Jessamine didn't hear Marta's sobs, or the shouts of festivity from the nearby gardens. She didn't feel the night wind pulling at her tunic, or the mask slipping from her hand. She felt only a chill, deep and black in her chest as she strode into the carriage, the door closing soundlessly behind her.


	9. The Emperor and the Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For every beginning . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my slow updates, readers--paid work has taken up much of my attention, and I expect that to continue. However, I will keep updating, if at a leisurely pace, and in honor of the buzz created by the Dishonored 2 leak let me present the last chapter of part 2. Hopefully it hits like I mean it to.

She could already hear the shouting by the time she reached the stairs.

The fabric of her train wrapped to straining around her arm, strands of hair flying in her face and coif forgotten, she took the library stairs two at a time, cursing the instability of her shoes. She stumbled over the top stair, the voices booming now as she rushed around the corner. She was just in time to see Cole lift Sokolov by the front of his jacket and slam him against the wall.

"—and I'll be damned if I let some slimy ice tongue anywhere near him, d'you understand me?"

He shook the man, pressed him harder against the paneling. Sokolov gripped Cole's wrists, held his composure though his eyes widened and feet dangled inches off the floor. He was just beginning to open his mouth, words careful on his tongue, when her voice cracked through the corridor air. "Cole!"

The protector turned as she dashed up to them, heels clicking angrily on the tile. "What are you doing?"

Certainly only she saw the minute darting of his eyes, down briefly as his grip slackened. He lowered Sokolov to his feet, folding his arms across his chest, gaze finding the ceiling as Sokolov brushed at his coat. Neither seemed willing to look at her.

"What happened?" she asked, looking back and forth between the two. "What's going on? Where's father?"

They were quiet a moment longer, and Jessamine was staring to bristle when Cole cleared his throat. "He fell."

She had gotten that much out of Marta, through the woman's nearly impenetrable sobbing. Her father falling on the stairs, being carried to his quarters, the physician being called—it was absurd. She had nearly laughed at the thought of it then. But now, if haltingly, Cole kept speaking. "He started acting strange. Holding his arm and not talking very well. And . . ."

He trailed off with a wave of his hand, turning to stare at the window. The knot of Jessamine's insides tightened.

"Was he poisoned?" she asked faintly.

"Not likely," Sokolov supplied. "Though I could make a clearer determination if I—"

Cole whirled like a storm, rising to his full, formidable height. "They not teach you how to listen in whatever ice cave you crawled out of?" he spat. "You aren't getting in that room, or do you have to learn the hard way?"

"I merely wish to offer my expertise," Sokolov said, raising defensive hands.

"The doctor's in there already," Cole shouted, thrusting his finger like a sword toward the royal apartments, though its sharpness turned on Sokolov soon enough. "And I  trust him a hell of a lot more than I trust you."

"I have seen the newest science the Academy has to offer!" Sokolov cried as his own anger bubbled up. "I can—"

"You can shut your mouth before I rip that rug off your face and shove it—!"

"Stop it!" Jessamine shrieked, viciously stomping her heel and making the hallway ring with both. "Both of you, _stop it_!"

They did, to their credit, heads swiveling toward her as if on pivots, three wide eyes staring at her. Their captivation didn't last long, Cole grunting dourly and looking back to the hall drapery, Sokolov clearing his throat. "What has the doctor said?" she asked.

"Hasn't come out yet," Cole answered, nodding at the great double doors flanked by Tower guards.

"How long has it been?" she pressed.

"Not long," he said. "They sent for the both of you right after it happened."

"And you're a doctor?" Jessamine said, turning to Sokolov.

The man was quick to catch on. "Not a physician, no," he replied seamlessly. "But I am aware of the symptoms of many maladies and the affected humors."

"So you can help find out what's wrong?"

"Possibly. I can certainly assist in—"

"Go. Right now," Jessamine said, and the words had barely left her mouth when Cole jerked violently to face her.

" _What_?" he barked, an instantaneous thing, tone laced with disbelief.

"He can help, Cole!" she snapped.

"He's a painter!" Cole snarled, pointing so viciously at Sokolov that the man stepped back a pace. The protector breathed in deeply, seemed to steel himself even as fury plucked at his brow. " _Your Excellency_ ," he hissed, "humoring him with lessons is one thing, but on my father's burnt bones I will _not_ allow some filthy-blooded cretin to perform his witchcraft on the Emperor—!"

" _Lord Protector Griggs_ ," Jessamine shouted, echoing about the hall, arms shaking with the curling of her fists, "by the order of Heiress Jessamine Kaldwin, you _will_ allow Mister Sokolov entry, or you will be labeled insubordinate. Do _you_ understand _me_?"

Cole didn't speak. He barely moved. Only his lip twitched as it fell, his eye wide in his face, body and out-held hands frozen like a bizarre oil painting. She pursed her own lips and tilted her chin, staring at him from beneath her lowered brow. Soon enough the disbelief melted from him like wax, mouth warping into a sneer over gritted teeth. He ripped his gaze from her and cast it to the walls, harsh breaths pushing from his nose like steam.

The world paused for a long moment before she heard the cautious beat of boots behind her, guards approaching from the door. "Sir?" one said.

"Do as she says," Cole replied gruffly, waving a hand before running it over his face, not once looking up. "Let him in."

Jessamine let out a slow breath, shaking in her throat. Her eyes drifted to the floor, her fingers curling and uncurling as the guards murmured nearby, Sokolov answering in kind. A glimpse of a jacket tail caught her eye as the steps receded, and the great doors creaked open and knocked closed. Then it was the two of them left in the quiet, repelled as if by some angry magic.

She lifted her eyes. His hand was pressed to his forehead, back hunched, gaze fixed somewhere she couldn't see. Her mouth opened, slight sounds and hints of murmurs tumbling from her lips. _They will help him, Cole_ she wanted to say. _Sokolov can only help—please listen—you're being a fool—please don't—please don't be—_

He lifted his head. Slowly, he turned toward her, eye sharply catching the light as he looked her up and down. His brows tilted, and his mouth turned in a frown. "What are you wearing?" he asked, brow drawing in.

She felt a bolt to her chest like he had plunged a blade into her. Looking down, she took in the colorful patterns draping her form, flowing fabric disheveled and strung around her like twine. She felt her hair tugging in odd ways as it fell from its careful arrangement, could only imagine how her make-up had smeared or the smell of drink had eeked into her clothing. She lifted her head (tottering slightly; she'd broken her heel), made to speak, and found nothing to say.

Cole shook his head in earnest this time and turned away. "Go get yourself cleaned up," he said, and marched down the hall without another word. Lip fallen, she watched him go, wanting to shout after—to scream, yell, demand him back. Instead, she stood quiet, feeling the vast silence of the hall around her.

\---

Her face stung with the force of her scrubbing, punctured by her own whines and shivers that she refused to heed. _Your Excellency,_ she heard, _we will certainly bring you hot water if you would_ —but she didn't want to stand idle where thoughts could find her, so she flung ice cold water against her face and scoured viciously with the cloth. She rubbed until the skin had gone red, stopping only to turn the bristle brush on her arms. Clean away every hint of paint and scent, so she wouldn't have to see it, wouldn't have to think that she was, when—she scrubbed harder.

The servants eventually goaded her from the mirror, into proper clothes and to her quarters. She had hardly settled on her bedside to brush her hair (absently, running the thing over the same spot ten times without noticing) before a knock came at the door.

"Lady Jessamine?" a muffled voice came through the wood to meet her. The door opened a crack, spreading wider, until she saw a hint of lavender and a great, drooping petal peeking through.

"Delilah?"

" _Lady Jessamine_!" Delilah cried, sending a jolt up Jessamine's spine as she pushed the door open. Streaks of dark mascara were splashed down her cheeks, her beautiful outfit bedraggled, and she hiccupped pitifully as she limped into the room on still-heeled feet.

"Delilah, what—"

"I'm so sorry," she said, coming across the room to Jessamine's side. "I—I thought you—I didn't know why you left and I was, I was so angry and I—" she sniffed and rubbed at her eyes, spreading the black paint across her face. "I didn't know, I didn't—oh my lady, I'm so sorry!"

With shaking hands the girl grabbed Jessamine and pulled her into an embrace, fingers finding the back of her head. Jessamine listened to the sobs and sniffs beside her ear, blinking soundlessly, and wrapped her arms around Delilah's shoulders.

They sat together for a while, Delilah brushing and braiding her hair and neither of them fashioning a word. She sent Delilah away after a time, telling her to prepare for bed and not to worry—Jessamine's smile of assurance was small and weak, but it was the best she could do. When Delilah's sad sniffs had wafted down the hall into quiet, Jessamine sat in the wake of it all, silent and unmoving.

The minutes blurred. She drifted from bed to desk, back and forth again, wringing her fingers as she stared at the parchment layering the wood surface. She glimpsed scrawls in Corvo's hand, brushed other pages aside so she could read his salutations, news of preparations, lighthearted talk of the rainy season. (Three days, she suddenly realized, until his arrival—what she wouldn't give for less, for him to be sitting in her chair at this very moment with downturned brow and anxious fidgeting but listening, always—) But even that did not keep her for long, and she took to wearing tracks in the rug with her pacing, gnawing her lip, wringing her hands.

She felt has if weeks had flown past by the time a knock finally came at her door, her head snapping about like a whipcrack. There was a servant there to escort her, all quiet and shuffling, another to meet her at the study door and guide her through the adjoining entrance to the royal apartments. Then there was the physician, looking particularly solemn as she stepped into the room.

He said something unimportant and fleeting, gone from her mind in an instant as he gestured toward the bed. The four-poster stood imposingly, all great dark wood and drawn curtains. She sensed the physician's words, barely heard them as she reached with twitching fingers to pull the velvet aside.

Her father lay still in the sheets, ashen pallor swathed in purple blankets. He looked slight, a bruise on his cheek, one eye and the corner of his mouth oddly set as if his face had gone slack around them.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked with half a voice, the physician fading back into existence beside her.

He cleared his throat. "My apologies, your Excellency," he answered most professionally, "but we can't be entirely certain. As I said, apoplexy is a complicated condition . . ."

He went on a moment longer, a drizzle of words that left Jessamine the instant she heard them. Her eyes trailed back to her father's pale face, carefully arranged form, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. She wasn't sure if the physician was still talking or not when she spoke up. "Can you heal him?" she asked.

There was certainly quiet then. Jessamine lifted her head, fixed the carefully-arranged man with her gaze. His eyes drifted to the walls, the floor, everywhere but her and her father. "Can you heal him?" she asked again.

"I will do everything I can, your Excellency," he said in earnest, bowing. "That I promise you."

She stared at the top of his balding head, hearing nothing but the creak of her father's breathing. That was what followed her back to her chambers as dawn light fell across the hall floor. It accompanied her as she cloistered herself in the library through noonlight to dusk glow, pouring over medical almanacs in the eerie quiet of the Tower. It followed her still, plucking at her mind as dark fell and she took to the garden overlooking the waterlock, sitting heavily at a table graced with shivering lamplight.

Sokolov, shaken from a revere on the table's other side, actually seemed wary.

"I suppose I know why you're here," he said, turning to tuck his flask into his coat. Jessamine thrust her hand out toward him, gaze locked on the river beyond, seeing him pause out of the corner of her eye. "Perhaps not," he said, and she felt cool metal against her palm.

She wordlessly unscrewed the cap and put the thing to her lips, but even stone-faced as she tried to stay she couldn't hold back the gagging. The repulsive liquid burned as it trickled down her throat and pooled on her tongue. Still, she swallowed it down through the coughing.

Sokolov, wise man he was, didn't say a word, so it was she who spoke first. "Is it true?" she asked. "What the physician said."

"You mean the diagnosis," he said after a beat of quiet. She nodded. He sighed. "Yes. I recommended it, and we agreed that the symptoms were consistent."

Jessamine took another pull that was little easier to swallow. Bleeding in the brain. A fist to her lips, she choked back the awful taste.

They sat in silence as the sky darkened overhead, only the sloshing liquid sounds passing between them. She caught him staring once, and the world shifted oddly as she turned and narrowed her eyes at him. The feeling came again when she lifted her hand to the sky and finally spoke, asking the name of a consolation she thought she recognized, the words wavering like overfull water glasses in her mouth.

Sokolov answered like he had not heard, once or twice more before he asked for a drink himself. Jessamine handed it over reluctantly—it had become less and less vile with each swallow—and he extracted a folding cup to contain his portion.

"Will he be all right?" Jessamine asked as she watched him pour, listened to the odd tinny sound of liquid on metal, and felt it the right time.

"That is . . . hard to say, my lady," he answered, tipping the flask back to cap it. "Apoplexy is an odd affair."

"So he may die," she said stonily, "or he may live as a lesser man."

"Or he may recover and live as he has always lived," Sokolov responded. "It is . . . complex."

"Whoever would have thought you to be the optimist," she mumbled, slouching in her seat.

"I like to remain open to all possibilities," he answered. "And what are you then, my lady?"

"I am angry," she said long before she comprehended his question, if she ever did in the way he meant. Her nose wrinkled and lips pursed, and she gestured insistently for the flask. "My father is dying, our protector is a brute, I'm surrounded by beasts of people"—the canteen found her hand and she took a swig, quick and vicious—"and the one person I want with me isn't here!"

The _pang_ of the flask hitting the table reverberated through the courtyard like a ship bell through fog. She left it standing upright there, folding her arms over her chest as she stared into the darkness. "And if you tell anyone about this," she said, turning to Sokolov, "you'll _wish_ for the Yaro prison wastes."

"Naturally," he replied, pouring himself another thimble. "You can be sure I'm nothing if not discrete."

"Good," she said, but as they lapsed into silence she fidgeted anxiously, thought through the haze of drink. "And it's . . . not to say I don't appreciate your company."

"Such kind words, my lady," he said, sliding the flask over to her and raising his tin. "Best drown them before they cause you trouble."

She let out a puff of a laugh—a small, weak thing—took the flask up and said cheers. _To health_ she thought bitterly as she sucked the drink down, _and to the Kaldwins_.

\---

Her head ached viciously when she awoke the next morning, and when Marta came to call the nurse put it up to grief—which was certainly true, in its way.

After a strong brew and a bit of lavender to her temples, they let her in to see her father, still as stone beneath his blankets. He had woken briefly in the night, the physician told her—not long enough for the maids to retrieve anyone, he assured when Jessamine turned narrowed eyes on him—and had spoken strangely, as if it were a struggle for him. Normal, the physician said as she put a hand on her father's shoulder, normal, and when anything changed or he awoke again she would be the first to know. Of course.

She tried to write, but her fingers stood dumb, gaze blurring as she stared at the page. Restless feet carried her about the Tower and she got lost in its corridors, coming to herself far from where she remembered being. Once she ran directly into a frazzled maid, the first she had seen in days. On another occasion she almost didn't recognize the east wing. A third she heard the foreign sound of voices as she awoke in the corridor overlooking the foyer, looked down to see Marta speaking to a well dressed man as indistinguishable as any other.

"—ready to accept the delegation?" she heard him say, echoing through the great and empty expanse. "She must be prepared to perform these duties if—"

"The Royal Protector can serve well enough for now," Marta answered, voice hard. "And if the Serkonans can't appreciate the circumstances, then . . ."

Jessamine did not hear the rest, footsteps carrying her to the garden stair, mind supplying a quiet _never_ of its own.

\---

Her mind had just grown calm enough for sleep—her exhausted body yearning for it, her bedroom candles hours since snuffed out—when a sharp crack split her misty dreams.

She jerked at the sound, rolling over as it came again, clearer this time: a knock at her door, swift and insistent. "Yes?" she called hoarsely, sitting up in bed. The door opened instantly, and as she squinted against the sudden light she found a maid looking in, candle clutched tight in one hand, looking pale.

"Lady Jessamine," she said, "the physician has asked that you come right away."

What little sleep had  eeked into her mind vanished in an instant. She scrambled out of bed, dressing quickly and clumsily, a wave of dread spreading through her chest as if to smother her.

The maid escorted her to the study, and near the adjoining door with the royal chambers they found the physician, hovering and fidgeting. "He asked for you, your Excellency," he murmured as Jessamine approached. "Or spoke your name, rather." Clearing his throat, he seemed unable to meet her eyes, gaze locked on a spot of nothing to her right. "He is not well."

A wave of burning cold washed over her shoulders and pooled in her belly, a pitiful sound pulling from her lips as if she were losing air. She looked past him into the room, moving without feeling.

She saw someone kneeling at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders holding back the four-poster's gently shifting curtains. Cole. She heard him murmuring, indistinguishable, broken with soft pauses where he seemed to be listening to what she could not hear. In a better moment she might have thought to sit, grant him proper privacy, but instead she stood dumbly in the center of the room, watching through a break in the fabric. She saw something move inside and breathed in, lips pursing to a thin line.

After a time Cole took notice of her, glimpsing back before turning in full and meeting her eyes. Slanted brows, a set jaw, something in his gaze that was so strange and yet clear—a hopeless knowing. An affinity.

He did not linger long. Starting, he quickly turned back to the confines of the bed, leaning close. The curtain shifted further and she could see her father's face cloaked in shadow, Cole tilting his ear close to listen. His gaze slid to the ceiling, drifting as if on a current, frown deepening. Eyes closed, brows turned down, pained lines etched into the grooves of his face. He nodded.

Another pause, perhaps a few words, and he rose as if lifting a blood ox's burden on his shoulders. Jessamine stood still as he approached, clearing his throat when he stopped at her shoulder. "He can't speak very well," he murmured close to her ear. "Best not to upset him. Say what you need."

His steps were heavy as he moved, echoing far, far away. She stared at the gap in the curtains. Her legs seemed not to exist, but they moved her still through the empty white world, depositing her at the bed's edge. Her hands found the mattress, the dark cover, curled in it as her head pressed past the curtain.

Her father turned toward her, small and weak. He blinked with sunken eyes in a pale face, a mist to his gaze as his brows furrowed. For half a moment and a swift, violent jolt she thought he did not recognize her. Then a small smile came to his mouth, his fingers shaking as he lifted them toward her face. "Love," he rasped, and she quickly took his hand.

"I'm here, father," she said, kneeling beside him, a tightness in her chest.

He squeezed her fingers, if weakly. She pressed on a smile of her own, and held his hand between her two as his gaze drifted to the shadows spilling from the canopy.

"Mustn't worry," he said.

"Yes, father," she replied, feeling the softness of his aged skin against her palms.

"Your mother," he said. "Tell her. Love."

Jessamine felt as if she had swallowed a stone. "I will," she answered, a burning behind her eyes.

They sat in silence for a time—she didn't dare stop to measure it—as he gazed sightlessly overhead. She let her own eyes fall, dry and stinging, to the rivulets of fabric on the sick bed, her world the shallow sound of his breaths and the wrinkles under her touch.

In the midst of her mental fog his grip tightened, stronger than she would have thought possible. Her gaze jerked to him; his lips had fallen open in a pant, eyes wide and darting.

"Father?"  she said, a sharpness piercing her chest. His eyes snapped to her face, shining with liquid light as they locked there. She felt pinned by his gaze, his lips quivering as if speech eluded him.

"Don't—" she said, and for what little it was worth, held his hand tighter, "it's all right. Just, please, it's okay—"

"Love," he croaked, an urgency to his voice, as if he meant to say something of great importance. Her hand shook with his heavy breathing, and by instinct she pressed her fingers to his forehead, as he had done for her when she was a child.

"It's okay," she said, pushing back his lightened hair, "it's okay."

He grew calm after that, lying back against the pillows as his breathing evened and eyes lidded. She was only just noticing the slowing rise and fall of his chest, the way he sank into the bed, when he weakly rubbed the skin of her knuckles, head lolling toward her. "Love," he said once more. "Be . . . good."

She stared at him in the quiet, blinking as her mind supplied nothing. She tried to understand, watching as he turned again toward the canopy. His eyes drifted open as if he were no longer as tired as he seemed—and then, slowly, his hand loosened in her grip.

For a moment, time ticked by without either of them. Then she rejoined the world, her grasp tightening hard, harder, making up for his lost strength. "No," she whispered to nothing. A sob pressed at the inside of her lips, her own body quivering as she shook the flesh and bone gone limp in her hand. He didn't look away from the shadows. " _No!_ "

Something heavy fell to her shoulder, curled firmly, and with a whimper she turned, still holding tight. "Cole," she bleated, staring up where he stood beside her.

Cole said nothing. Strong against her brittle-feeling frame he lifted her to her feet, her father's hand sliding from her own. The protector murmured something Jessamine barely heard— _take her to bed_ —and there was a servant at her arm, whispering and sniffling. Cole leaned between the curtains, pulling them closed as Jessamine was led through the study door.

Dawn light misted through the windows to touch her shoulder as the servant led her down the hall. The woman kept saying something— _I'm sorry my lady I am so very sorry_ —that Jessamine barely heard, and in a few moments' time she found herself in her quarters, sitting heavily on the edge of her bed.

The servant, through a sniffle, said something and waited silently for a response. Jessamine looked up—moving strangely, she felt, twitching like a tin toy—and the woman shifted anxiously before excusing herself. Or Jessamine supposed she did, saying something and then edging out the door. Silence sat around her, neither heavy nor light. So suddenly and in so organized a fashion, she was alone.

It was a while before she noticed something out of place on her desk: a silver platter, neatly placed. She was not certain what compelled her, but numbly she stood, shuffling across the room. A humble envelop greeted her, warped and weather beaten, rolled and unrolled as if for a hawk's bearing. However, it was the scrawl on its front that caught her eye: _Her Excellency Jessamine Kaldwin_ , it read in bleeding ink, in a hand she instantly recognized.

She plucked the letter up and pulled it open, the paper sticking where water had formed it in bulges and wrinkles. Bending it flat, she held the parchment up to the meager candlelight and read its words through the dried trickle of ink. Slowly her eyes moved down the page—slowly, her hands began to shake.

The floor reached up to strike her knees. The letter, crinkling beneath her clenched fingers, fell away as her hands flew to her face. A horrid sound tumbled from her mouth, like the cry of an animal being torn apart, and tears burned her palms like fire. She tried in vain to breath, every pull for air a shuddering tremor in her chest, and as the desk groaned with the collapsing of her weight she felt she would sink into the ground, swallowed, alone.

As a faraway peel of great bells sounded throughout the city, reaching through the walls of Dunwall Tower, Empress Jessamine Kaldwin curled in, and wept.

\---

_Dearest Lady Jessamine,_

_As I write, I hope you are in good health and spirits, despite all that has happened. News of the Emperor's illness has reached Serkonos, and I send my deepest, most sincere condolences. I have no doubt that your heart remains strong, and I hope you find courage and kindness to uphold you during such troubled times._

_I am deeply sorry to send unfortunate news, but our entourage has been delayed due to dangerous weather, as naval passage beyond Serkonos has become impossible. We have been forced to dock north of Bastillian, and await clear skies to continue our journey. I apologize sincerely for the delay, and please know that I will do everything in my power to have us back to sea with great haste. Know that there is nowhere I would rather be than by your side, and I will be there soon to help see you through the hard days of your father's trials._

_Forever yours,_

_Corvo Attano_


	10. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day she looks up, and everything has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry readers, bit of a silent stretch there--things have changed pretty significantly for me in the last few months, so this had to be put on the back burner for real life. Still, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and look forward to more!
> 
> On an unrelated note, I listened to The Draw by Bastille a lot while working on this. It seems oddly appropriate.

~

It's all rather a blur, when she can stop to think about it.

She was officially decreed Empress weeks before ceremony powders and paints touched her face and stylists coifed her hair. When she blinked at the still-dark of morning now, servants bustling around her with anxious formality, she thought of kneeling in simple black trousers and blouse on the floor of the hearing room, staring at lines in the white marble.

It was _unprecedented_ , whispers pressed into her skull from everywhere—a monarch leaving no brothers, no sons, and an unwed daughter of age to be crowned. But she was the heir, the _only_ heir and as the sun set on the day of her father's passing, there was no choice but her or war. She wondered, with a twisting lip, how long it took them to decide, or remember she was Empress by blood without their hand-wringing.

Her outfit was grander now, a billowing thing of black, and they added every frill her mourning would allow. The venue was brighter when she stepped onto the stage erected in the Dunwall Tower courtyard, autumn sun beaming into her eyes. The audience was greater, politicians and socialites and those of the great families spaced nearest the front, going quiet as she crossed the stage. The crowd of them stretched to the very edges of the yard. Not a peasant or servant to be seen.

She glanced down, and found a pillow marking where she was meant to kneel, ornately embroidered as any cloth that ever graced the Tower. She settled there, hands lightly over her knees, symbolic supplication as new bodies came up beside her. Simple electors was all she needed—witnesses to the crowning, a court official to mark it for the annals of history.  Instead she had the Prime Minister of the Parliament, a balding and long-nosed man she barely recognized, and the High Overseer, horribly dignified with ice-white mustache. It had been simpler before, her and Cole, a few advisors and Parliament officiates—but these men could hardly give up the clout of a coronation, she supposed.

"Jessamine Kaldwin, first of her name," the Minister said, as his official had before, "of noble birth and blood, do you accept the weight of the Empire's crown?"

"I do," she said with a tip of her head. The chill of Winds whipped about her, and she gritted her teeth not to shiver.

"Do you swear to guide her, to keep her from strife and harm?"

" With all the wisdom of my fathers before," she said again, and she could feel Cole's commanding presence to her right, a pillar of steadiness.

"Do you swear to protect her borders from enemies within and without?"

"With my life," she finished once more.

Adulation rose with her as she stood, all delicate claps, and the crown was heavy when they set it upon her head. She was Empress, before and now, in silence and in cheers—and the world only seemed to pick up speed.

\---

"—our eternal gratitude."

The sudden absence of the man's voice was enough to shake her from her reverie. She blinked at where he stood before her, stiff in the shoulders and pleading in the eyes. A representative from the Fisherman's Guild, asking for funds to repair the docks at—where was it again? Clavering? No, that was the Engineer's Guild, and about the bridge. The waterfront?

Reluctantly she glanced toward the straight-backed man at her left, tilting to catch his attention. Her treasury advisor, who leaned close and murmured _4000 coin_ in her ear.

The room remained impressively silent as he shifted back—every shade and color of the Empire seemed to fill the foyer, well-wishers and petitioners, grievances and requests falling at her feet. It irritated her to have him here, his fixed gaze and quiet voice, and though he only spoke when spoken to she knew word of her choices would reach the other advisors in time. So she hated even more _asking_ him these things, about the state of her coffers, things she should know but was too tired to think on.

"4000 coin," she repeated. The man thanked her profusely and offered tidings of great joy at her ascension, the hundredth in as many hours. Murmuring filled the room and she sighed quietly, shifted against the ache of her stiff back before beckoning the next person forward.

A representative of Draper's Ward pledged undying allegiance to House Kaldwin, and implored her for funds to revitalize the district. A slight and nervous man asked that the highroad to Whitecliff be renovated in time for the Overseer's yearly pilgrimage—she answered that for herself, pledging surveyors to assess the road's wear, and the treasurer looked at her oddly from the corner of his eye. Small delegations arrived from Redmoor, Driscol, even Alexin and Caulkenny, smiling and bowing and praising her rise, thinly veiled requests for funds following after.

She preferred that, however, to other words.

"Your father was a great man," said a woman from Alexin in a heavy accent as she rose from her knees. Jessamine felt a twisting in her chest. "The Empire will feel the weight of his absence for many years to come."

Jessamine gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her lips straight. She nodded stiffly and looked overhead, a silent sign of dismissal.

The woman offered it as a formality, Jessamine thought, watching her carefully shaded eyes as she turned away. But there were others, more sincere—a man from Dabokva offered his condolences, fidgeting with nervous hands. Some wept. She fixed a pained smile onto her face and nodded, twisting her fingers in the sides of her trousers. She heard more requests, kept her eyes pointedly averted from the treasurer, tried to focus and think through her exhaustion—

"The Emperor's loss was a great tragedy for the Empire, your Excellency," said a slight man from Pottershead in a worn suit that may have been the only one he owned. She barely registered his face. "We all—all feel the weight of his loss. But I—I have no doubt in my heart that we can expect as much from you. Er, Excellency. Forgive me."

She stared at him for a long moment, teeth sinking into her lower lip. The silence stretched, air seeming to thicken where it hung around the crowd. He grew more anxious by the moment, shrinking like an animal away from a whip. After too long a she swallowed, breathed shallowly, forced a quiet, "Thank you," before gracefully slouching to the right.

Cole knew his signal well. With straight shoulders and one expert stride he stepped in front of her, giving her space to rise and retreat down the hall. "That'll be all. Audiences will start again tomorrow, as scheduled," she heard him say, his voice fading as she viciously rubbed the heel of her hand against her eye.

\---

"I'm sure it will calm soon, my lady," Delilah said, thin fingers expertly weaving a plait out of Jessamine's hair. "And you are doing well, truly."

"Mmm," Jessamine said with closed lips and eyes. She had seen Delilah only sparingly in the last few weeks, and though the girl's presence here—perched on the edge of the bed, far from prying beggars and disastrous well-wishes—was certainly gratifying, she doubted even a tremor could shake her from her fatigue. "Have you seen the work of many other Empresses?"

"W-well, no," Delilah answered shyly, and Jessamine felt the plucking of her fingers speed. "But I, I think it is a fair thing to say all the same."

Jessamine chuckled, and felt her friend relax. "I'm sure you will become accustomed to it in time," Delilah said more confidently. "And when you have—to hold the whole of the Empire like that . . ."

Delilah stilled, and when her voice reached Jessamine's ears it had taken on a certain tone, soft and dreamy. "I can just imagine."

As those fingers returned to their work and quiet misted through the room, Jessamine opened her eyes, brow furrowed.

\---

“Two years,” Sokolov muttered with a scoff, as if he were the one made to feel the weight of it. Jessamine eyed him from the edge of her gaze, and when he dauntlessly failed to notice she sighed, sinking into her chair.

 

She wasn’t free from blame of course. She was in full mourning yet and was not meant to receive any guests, particularly a craggy-faced bachelor with the likeness and manners of a hog farmer. Yet she had made it clear to her advisors that the royal tutor would be on the short list of those welcome in the Tower, so her suffering now was her own doing. Still, it was much better than the alternative.

 

“Yes,” she answered, massaging the corners of her eyes. “Another eight months for full mourning, a year after for half."

 

He chuckled dryly. "One would think they'd be tripping over themselves to marry the Empress off, not cloister her."

 

She felt a headache pressing on her brow, too heavy to rub away. She could only sigh in answer.

\---

She glanced wordlessly down the table, a sea of parchment spread out before her, and the writing there blurred long before she took in more than a few letters.

It was not fit for her to be courted in mourning, to that they all showily agreed. _But_ they said in their stuffy, palm-muffled way, it was never too early to begin preparations. So they sat at the long meeting table with books and scrolls and papers spread between them, bickering at length, and she once again gazed over the family names and seals. Naughton. Inchmouth. Brokle. Mulville. Carberry. Pendleton and Carmine were missing at least, which was a comfort—small as she felt in this whole process, she had made a great point of _that_.

Discussions of family merits echoed around her head. The Donlans had great influence in the northern part of the continent and trade relations in Tyvia, but whispered sympathies with Morley. The Boyles were a prominent house, but lacked sons of any sort. The Seerys were perhaps the most promising, and though rumors of the youngest son's proclivities were oft-murmured of at court they weren't a great impediment, all things considered.

Her heard swimming with their voices, vision fuzzy with the sight of their books, Jessamine turned her gaze to the ceiling. None of them spoke to her, and she was not at all surprised.

\---

She almost missed the delicate cough that followed her into her quarters. A yawn in her mouth and hands in the midst of bringing down her hair, she paused, turning toward the sound. A servant stood in the doorway (small, not the great entry of the royal apartments, because as heavily as everyone hinted,  she couldn't—), hand extending to present a letter. A set of pleasantries and the envelope rested in Jessamine's palm, neatly folded and unblemished, as if it had not traveled far. Her name on the front, in his hand.

Confused, she peeled the paper open, and at first thought it blank. Only after the final fold did she find words looking back at her; a single, short line of them. But it was enough.

_My sincerest condolences_ it read, and she could hear it in his voice, _and most joyful congratulations. Yours, Corvo Attano._

It was enough. As she silently refolded the parchment, pressed at the wax with the pad of her thumb, it was enough to drain what little vigor she had left.

\---

4000 coin for the Festival of Steers in the northwest quarter of Gristol. 600 coin to repair a footbridge between Driscol and  Baleton. Great adulation from the Cotter clan of Fraeport. 900 coin for the apothecary of the Oracular Order along the road to Karnaca.

Jessamine blinked tired eyes, focusing on a fuzzy space above the Tower doors and resisting the urge to slump. Her advisor didn't wait for her glance any longer, leaning close to her ear before the petitioners could even bow their heads. Droning his answers like a worn audiograph, she sat lost in thought of piled accounting ledgers she couldn't decipher (numbers trading places on the page, jibberish that mocked her until she wanted to tear out her hair), apartments shut up and cold, a letter set firmly aside and buried because she could not stand to think on it. So she murmured answers and nodded vaguely, feeling so very drained.

He seemed just another body for a moment. As a miniscule town noble and her giant of a bodyguard stepped away, the quiet clicking of his shoes made no impression as he stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he said as all the others had, bowing just the same. His next words, however—"Please pardon my forwardness, but I don't suppose you remember me?"

She blinked, once, twice, as if her eyes needed to adjust to him. She found a cream-colored suit, chestnut-red hair, a thin nose, and perhaps a dusting of freckles. "Mister Perth," she said with a touch of surprise, sitting up straight. "Welcome."

The room seemed to hush, and if she had the inclination she might have taken note of Cole's gaze, feeling it on the side of her face. William stood straight-backed and quiet, as if expecting her to say more and not wishing to interrupt. She cleared her throat. "And what do you come to request of the crown?"

"I come only to offer my congratulations, Your Majesty," he answered. "And perhaps to give you a more favorable impression of me. I don't suppose our meeting brought you much joy, given all that followed."

Jessamine felt a twinge at that, but it was duller now, worn down by daily friction. His smile was soft, apologetic even, and she felt slight tugs at the corners of her mouth too. "Thank you," she said.

She  didn't feel the fog of incredulity and murmurs around her. She only saw the widening of his gentle smile and the slow bow of his head. He turned away, bleeding into the crowd, and the world seemed to color in his stride.

\---

He came again the next day, standing silently to the left of the dais, but just as soft and bright to draw her eye.  The advisor cleared his throat to catch her attention, pulling her back to a request for lumber subsidies for the lands at the foot of the Redmoor bluffs. If her focus ever stayed put on the slew of requests, today was not the day for it. Even as she answered, her gaze drifted minutely, ever to the left.

It was silly, she knew—he did not speak that day, or the next, or the next after that, and she knew little about him but his prowess for dancing and quick-witted jokes. But, perhaps—she glanced again, caught a hint of that light-colored suit in time to see his smile grow, his head politely dip.

She felt a touch of warmth pluck at her cheeks and turned her eyes straight, like a schoolchild caught peering where she should not. Yet she could not help the cheer it brought to her face. Just a little thing, a few shielded glances between faces in the crowd, a bewildered cough from her left and silence from her right—yes, just a small thing. That was all.

\---

She felt more than heard his approach, turning from where the parlor fire warmed her face to find him silhouetted in the doorway like a monolith. Oddly unsettled, she sat up straighter. "Yes?"

He seemed unsure what to say, clearing his throat and rubbing a great hand over the back of his neck. "Are you sure . . ." he started, voice gruff with lack of use, trailing off an instant later.

She narrowed her eyes, peering at him in the dark. "What is it? Cole?"

He stood still and silent a pained moment longer, then let his arm drop, waving dismissively as it fell. "Nothing. Forget it," he said, and with two heavy steps her disappeared from view, the glass door creaking with his departure.

She blinked in confusion, felt a chill down her neck despite the fire. After a moment she shook herself, shrugged it away, turned her eyes back to the letter in her lap— _The house of Perth formally requests an audience with Her Imperial Highness Jessamine Kaldwin the First on behalf of William Loughlin Perth..._

\---

"Apprenticeship?" she blurted far less gracefully than she would have hoped.

Delilah shone as if by some internal sun, smile stretching her heart-round face. Sokolov sat back in his chair, running a hand over his beard—it had grown into something of a scientific marvel over the last near-year—and nodding silently along. Delilah was vocal enough for them both, voice a chirp as she took Jessamine's hands over the parlor tea table. "Yes! Oh, my lady, isn't it wonderful?"

Jessamine nodded dumbly, remembering after a moment to curl her fingers in Delilah's own. Snow drifted past the windows in the hall, thick and white and misting the glass, but if not for the fire in the hearth Delilah could have likely warmed the Tower all on her own.  "Of course," Jessamine said. "Though you, a painter—I had no idea."

Delilah blushed charmingly, demure gaze dropping to the floor. "I kept it a secret," she answered. "Only Mister Sokolov knew, truly. Though I never expected him to take interest!"

Sokolov chuckled at that, plucking a flask from his coat pocket. "Our young Delilah is quite the talent, my lady. I said myself she is wasted as a baker."

If the girl's small frame could hold a drop more light, his words filled her up, and the gaze she turned toward him was nothing short of reverent. Jessamine felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth, resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "And will you remain at Dunwall Tower?" she asked instead.

"Briefly," Sokolov answered. "We will be departing for the Gristol northlands soon, and after that, our destination remains to be seen."

She kept the smile fixed to her face, hoping the sinking in her stomach did not rise to her eyes. She looked to Delilah, the admiration and joy in her glowing complexion. Taking a thoughtful breath, Jessamine gave the girl's hands an encouraging squeeze. "Congratulations," she said.

"Thank you, my lady!" Delilah replied, giggling lightly, all disbelief and delight and—something else, Jessamine realized when the girl met her eyes. Happiness, of course, nearly child-like excitement, but something that touched the corner of her eye and curled her mouth. Something victorious and haughty. Something smug.

It slid from her gaze in an instant as she turned a grin toward her new mentor. Jessamine stared, shook herself mentally as Delilah drew her hands free.

"I'm happy for you both," she said gracefully, wondering—their eyes on each other, Delilah murmuring something only he could hear—if they heard her at all.

\---

Again a gathering. Again the books and scrolls. The discussions and squawking about the best family, the superior son, a hundred names bandied back and forth with little consensus all around. Again she sat at the head of the table, quiet, ignored.

She tapped a rhythm against the tabletop, long since giving up on appearing interested. (The disapproving looks she got were not so frequent or compelling to make the effort worthwhile.) She listened to their droning as she listened to winds and foghorns on the river, looking at the papers before her with glazed eyes. Yellowed parchment and curls of ink, Doreey, Clark, McVean, Per—

Her fingers stopped their tapping, and after a moment's pause they reached across the table, plucking a book from a cluster of its brothers. _Perth_ , it read, and with it in hand she sat back, eyes alighting across the page.

As she read, drinking in the family history, she failed to notice the room go silent around her.

\---

Watching her breath misting through half-lidded eyes, she curled into her jacket as a bright-orange sunset painted the sky beyond the river. The first warm winds of spring plucked at her cheeks (it had been a long winter, she thinks, too tired to remember properly just now), still too chilly for anyone to think to find her out here. The guards would chance it soon enough, but for a bare moment of quiet she could relax . . .

She heard steps on the path, her nose wrinkling as they crunched softly across the frosted stone. Sinking further into her jacket and closing her eyes, she was just beginning to swear dejectedly in her mind when something landed with a _pat_ on the table.

Sokolov was there when she looked up, barely bothering to acknowledge her as he sank into the iron chair opposite. His hand drifting from the thin but lumpy parcel he had laid down, he cleared his throat and gazed into the distance. When he gave no indication he meant to speak she looked away, toward the sunset, accompanying him in silence.

It was only after several minutes of quiet—which, truth be told, she hardly minded—that he tellingly cleared his throat. "I've heard the news," he said, and if she were a different person she might have called his tone dismissive.  She knew him better, of course.

"That quickly?" she asked with a slight smile.

"You hear all sorts of things when you listen to servant babble." He turned, nodding shortly in a show of great respect. "Congratulations are in order, it would seem."

"And you? Taking on a new apprentice and traveling the world. You deserve congratulations yourself." He hummed in answer, gave a slight shrug. "And I had been thinking of inventing a position for you," she said, tapping her chin in mock thought. "Royal Philosopher, Royal Scientist, Royal Canvasman, something like that."

"Quite the shame," he said with a chuckle, running a hand over his beard. It shifted down to the parcel, pushing it across the table, swayed artfully to indicate it. "I thought I'd best provide my gift early, under the circumstances."

Grinning lightly, Jessamine plucked the envelope up, feeling its slight weight. She thought to note the sort of gifts Emperors and Empresses were accustomed to, grand offerings of gold and jewels and fine silks. But no—for him, this was quite kind.

"Take care with it," he said as she pulled the parcel open. "It's quite delicate."

Tilting the paper, she let the contents fall into her open palm: a triangle of crudely cut wood accented with metal, like something strung together by a child. She raised her eyebrow, giving Sokolov a peculiar look.

"Don't underestimate this treasure, my lady," he said with a shake of his head. "It's a powerful good luck charm. Put it to good use."

Chuckling, she slipped it back into its paper home, setting it aside as they watched the sun sink beyond the horizon. She made sure to pick it up as the air grew too dark and cold and drove them inside, Sokolov directing her to hold it just so. (She rolled her eyes, made sure to bear it in front of her with enthusiastic delicacy as they ascended the foyer stairs.) He halted at the library doors, excusing himself for the guest quarters. She smiled, bid him goodnight, and was just passing through the sitting room door when he cleared his throat, stepping up beside her.

"You are different, Jessamine Kaldwin," he said, his voice low. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

She stopped in place, blinking at him with furrowed brows. His mysterious tone disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced with a nod and a bid goodnight. She watched him go, his form vanishing behind the polished wood walls of the entryway.

As she shook herself, turned and climbed the steps with slow feet, she thought she felt the package vibrate oh-so-slightly against her palms.

\---

"My lady?"

She jumped at the sudden sound, fingers tightening against the sheer curtain they held before relaxing again. Beyond the window she could still see the ship headed toward the waterlock, laden with crew and supplies, closer than it had been when she drifted into thought. Turning, she smiled lightly at William, feeling the warmth of his hand where it rested against her shoulder. "This shall be quite a venture," he said, squeezing delicately. "Are you nervous?"

"No," she said, curling her fingers over his. She felt the tightness of the ring against her knuckle, still an odd weight, though she was growing used to it. "Excited. I've always wanted to return to Serkonos."

"Just there?" he said with a chuckle. "I'm sure Tyvia and Morley will be very disappointed."

"They will be new," she answered. "But an Empress must never fear."

She felt the hum and nod of his quiet reply, the slight tightening of his grip, the warmth at her shoulder—her prince, at her side as she looked onto the waiting horizon.


End file.
